The Solarflare Chronicles: The Novel
by Crystal Shekeira
Summary: G1. There is a darker, more serious side to being friends with the Transformers: ridicule, paparazzi, alienation ... and perhaps, death. Welcome to The Solarflare Chronicles. NaNoWriMo 2006.
1. March 1, 1986

**The Solarflare Chronicles: The Novel**

Author's Note: I admit, I am a perfectionist; when the time came to start thinking about this year's National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo/NaNo) novel, I was considering two: the sequel to my previous NaNo novel, _Vahazayi_, or a redo of _The Solarflare Chronicles_. The choice, when it came down to it, was an easy one. I had been flitting ideas around in my head as to how to improve the Chronicles (hereafter referred to as SCR, for _The Solarflare Chronicles: Revised_) for a while, and NaNo seemed the perfect venue for my overactive imagination.

As I said, I'm a bit of a perfectionist. The first _Chronicles _was a mess, and it's only up here to show that over time, you CAN improve. (Well, that, and when I first wrote it, I was newly back into the fandom. Your perceptions tend to fade with time.) Anyway, SCR was supposed to be better than SC, and it was ... for a while. However, I'd written it fast, trying to get out all the basics: Alina's background, her involvement with the Autobots, her friendship with Mirage, her death/rebirth, etc. There was a lot of stuff I left out -- _a lot_.

Thus, we come to SC:N. It's not a total reimagining; a few things might contradict material found in later stories, such as _More Raptor Than Robot_, but that's to be expected. I've tried to stay in line with what I've already established, but for the sake of the story, some things have been embellished, cut or revamped.

Is this the end? Probably not. I might try and fix things later on, but to do a complete rewrite? I can't rule that out, because I've rewritten _Vahazayi _about ten times over the past ten years, and _they're _not done yet!

Enjoy!  
--Crys

**Chapter One  
**March 1, 1986

_I can see it in my mind,  
__I can see it in their eyes.  
__It's close enough to touch it now,  
__but far away enough to die.  
_Saliva, "Click, Click Boom"

It was raining, and that only made things all the better. Alina hunched her shoulders, trying to keep the slanting downfall from running down her collar and into the tips of her shoes. She should have known that it would be useless. The world was funny like that – why, just this afternoon, she had been called into her boss's office at the public relations firm of Harper-Bell and presented with the first promotion in the five years that she had been Mr. Harper's executive assistant (read: secretary). Things flowed smoothly through the rest of the day, but it just wasn't to end that way.

So, here she stood, in nothing but her paper-thin overcoat (already beginning to smell), at a pay phone in the driving rain. Whatever god was watching over her allowed her to have the flat near the booth, but that god was also, apparently, a prankster. Alina twisted her face, trying in vain to tuck her hair back under the hood; it wouldn't do. Lock after lock of black strands were pushed across her calm blue eyes, over the bridge of her nose and into her mouth.

Fumbling in one soggy pocket, she drew forth the correct amount of change, lifted the germ-infested receiver and put them in. To her chagrin and humiliation, each coin landed with a solid _thunk_ in the return slot. _Great_, she thought, gritting her teeth and retrieving the coins to try again. Rain thudded dully against her back and on the top of her head, trying to drive into her ear and straight through to her stressed-out brain.

At long last, the coins took and she immediately dialed her parents – for that same god who had fortuitously allowed her to stop here also made sure that there was no phone book available. Either that, or someone had taken it upon himself to lift it for their own use. _It probably wouldn't have done me any good_, Alina muttered as her numbing fingers punched the buttons.

The phone made all the appropriate noises in response to her pushing, but at that final moment before it turned over to start ringing, the skies opened up and a massive bolt of lightning shot across the heavens. With a horrible shriek – both from phone and woman – the line went irrefutably dead.

Alina dropped the receiver as if it carried a charge and huddled against the booth, rain streaming down her face. Not a few feet away, her silver Cavalier sat smugly, taunting her with that flat.

"Now what do I do?" she moaned, gathering up the soggy remnants of her bargain basement overcoat to the bottom of her chin in a vain effort to keep warm. Water conveniently pressed into her mouth and she coughed, spitting on the sidewalk. Tears, which would normally have been visible in the dry hours, mixed with the rain, and Alina would never have known that she was crying had she not felt so miserable.

Dejectedly, she looked at the Cavalier, then once up the road and back again. Not a soul in sight. _Shit_. Hopping off the curb, she reached the driver's side door and was about to open it when she heard the sounds of another vehicle approaching from behind. With her father's warnings of taking aid from strangers on a dark and stormy night ringing in the back of her mind, she looked up, peering through the torrential storm. Headlights, bright and beacon-like, pierced her eyes as the car drew closer, driving slowly, wipers going double-time.

The jeep, top covered and looking a queer shade of green in the darkening evening, put its blinker on and pulled to the side, parking neatly behind the Cavalier. Stunned, Alina pulled back from the car door, tilting her head to get a better look. Two people moved within; the jeep's driver's-side door popped open, followed quickly by a blue golf umbrella.

"Trouble, miss?" a gruff voice called out against the downpour.

Alina blinked. Could it be?

The hidden man ran up to her and extended the umbrella, giving her the first true look at her savior.

"Mr. Witwicky!" she exclaimed, almost dropping her hold of her collar.

The balding, stocky man looked right back at her, eyes widening as he tried to place her. Confusion flickered briefly, only to be swiftly replaced by recognition. "Little Lina Michaels! My word, it's been a long time. What are you doing here? Last I heard from your parents, you were in California on an internship."

Alina laughed, the first wave of relief that she'd felt in a long time. "We've been out of touch, then, Mr. Witwicky. I _was_ interning with a PR firm, and when I graduated, I got hired for Harper-Bell back here in Portland. I've been here for five years and you haven't noticed!"

Sparkplug Witwicky chuckled in amused embarrassment, rubbing the back of his head with his free hand. "Well, we haven't been around town for about as long, Alina." He paused, taking in her soggy features as if for the first time. "Dammit. Girl, we've got to get you dry. What happened to your car?"

Alina sighed, shoulders dropping, and with it, her hood. Shiny black hair, plastered into a wet mass, rolled around her neck. "Flat."

Sparkplug peered around her, making a quick assessment. "I see," he grunted. "Well, we can get that fixed up nice and quick. Why don't you hop in and we'll get some help?"

What a welcome respite it was to hear those words! Alina smiled gratefully and took Sparkplug's proffered arm back to the Jeep. The door to the passenger's side popped open eagerly, and who should appear but little Spike! But the face she'd remembered from all those years babysitting had matured into a young man – albeit still trying to shake off some roundness of adolescence.

"Alina! Get in!" he cried out in welcome, chivvying over so that she could grab a seat.

Sparkplug ushered her in, then made his way to the driver's side, curtly folding up the golf umbrella and tucking it into the back.

Air, deliciously warm and invigorating, blew on her face. With a sigh, Alina reached forward to angle it more towards her hair; as her fingertips were but millimeters away, the vent turned obligingly. Startled, she pulled back, her coat making wet, slopping sounds against the leather seat. Next to her, Spike slid a glance towards his father. Sparkplug shrugged.

"Hound."

Eyes wide, Alina looked from vent to Witwicky.

"Terribly sorry," a voice from the ether apologized. The vent tipped forward, blowing air across her lap. "But I'd rather not you catch cold. You seem to have been out there a long time." Another vent began throwing a stream of warm air over her saturated shoes. "You'll find a towel in the glove compartment." – which obligingly popped open.

Realization stabbed painfully into her numb brain. Now that her hair had been pushed back from her face, Alina could see that the dashboard was anything but ordinary. What could only be described as futuristic paneling spread out from door to door. Dials and gauges that did not come standard on her Cavalier blinked and flashed in time with the wipers.

With a sheepish smile, Spike reached across her, took the towel and pressed it into her hands. "Yeah, Hound's an Autobot."

With surprise and shock fading, Alina grasped the towel and began to wipe her face. The air that Hound was blowing was already drying out her hair, turning it into a bushy mane. "You know," she began slowly, awareness that she was sitting in a living being never more prominent in her mind, "in the two years that you've been here, I've yet to see any of you on the streets."

Hound chuckled, a very pleasant, if slightly-metallic, sound. Some lights on his panel blinked accordingly. "You say you work at Harper-Bell?" He paused, waiting for her nod. "A little out of our usual patrol range. We just don't go that way."

"Oh."

Sparkplug and Spike smiled encouragingly. "Say, Hound," the elder Witwicky proposed, "would you mind giving Hoist a call? We need to get Ms. Michaels' car a new tire."

"Already placed, received and acknowledged," the chipper reply asserted. "He'll be here in a few clicks. So just sit tight and dry off. Ratchet would have my drive shaft if I brought you back to base a shivering wreck." The wryness of Hound's tone brought a smile to Alina's face.

In the time that it took for this mysterious Hoist to arrive, she and the Witwickys filled each other in on the gaps in their lives. Alina sat patiently, listening to Spike's account of how the Autobots had rescued them from the Decepticons and the burning oil rig. As more adventures spun from the youth's mouth, she couldn't help but feel a little inferior in comparison. Surely, she had a great job and that promotion this afternoon was nothing to sneeze at – but, it wasn't often one got to be friends with an alien race.

Hound chimed in now and then, gently correcting or teasing Spike. Alina found herself warming up to the persona behind the automotive exterior in more ways than one. The tales finally wound up to the present when a cheerful, if oddly-accented voice came over Hound's internal speakers. Alina turned around and saw another pair of headlights winking in the dwindling rain; as she did so, the one wet point on her bottom squelched against the seats.

Embarrassment swept hot along her cheeks, and she reached for the damp rag she'd tucked back into Hound's glove compartment. The Autobot merely chuckled as Spike and Sparkplug climbed out to help Hoist with her car.

"Ah, never mind with that," the Jeep laughed. "I doubt rot will be setting in any time soon."

Still clutching the rag, Alina frowned. "It can't be pleasant," she argued, shifting over and wiping the seat. Hound remained noncommittal, but she got a feeling of amusement coming from the panel. It occurred to her, as she was drying up the last bit of water, that she was almost feeling up the innards of another person – metallic, but a person. Hastily, she dabbed at her rear, stuffed the rag into her pocket and slid back into her seat as the door opened and Spike and Sparkplug piled on in. Ahead, the tow-truck that was Hoist had finished winching up the Cavalier.

"_Ready to go when you are,"_ Hoist proclaimed cheerily.

Automatically, Alina reached for the seatbelt and stopped. Next to her, Spike and Sparkplug were pulling theirs on with nary a thought. _Well_, she mused, _they're friends, so I suppose pulling on your friend's intestines are okay._

"Buckle-up, Lina," Sparkplug called out, grinning. Shoulders sloped with chagrin, she did as she was told. Hound's engine revved, and he pulled off the curb, following the lurid red break lights of her Cavalier.

* * *

The rain had all but dwindled to a few sprinkles as Hound drove up the winding rocky path to the Autobot's entombed spaceship in Mt. St. Hillary. The drive to the Ark had mellowed Alina's initial trepidation towards the Autobot, and she leaned her elbow on the door, looking out into the night illuminated by the Jeep's headlights. Sharp-angled rocks, odd cacti and various nocturnal fauna met her curious gaze. That is, until they finally reached the Ark. 

Eyes wide, Alina looked up – and up – at the massive craft, the only indicator of its immense size being four giant boosters and a bit of hull sticking out of the side of the mountain. Golden light shone in the darkness from the wide-mouthed bay that Hoist was currently towing her car into.

Hound pulled in as far as past the lip of the bay before coming to a halt and politely popping open his doors. Not knowing what to expect, Alina climbed out, followed by Spike; Sparkplug grabbed the golf umbrella before the doors clicked shut and the forest green Jeep began a most amazing change. As Alina watched with a pounding heart and gaped mouth, the Jeep that was Hound began to shift – parts pulled away from each other, metal scraped on metal and bent in on itself until there was no Jeep parked on the burnt orange bay floor … but a tall, blocky robot. Hound groaned and stretched, rotating his arms so that droplets of water splashed on either side of the bay. He turned, and Alina could see his face: grey, framed by a dark green helm with two bright, blue glass eyes winking merrily. The biggest smile stretched across what must have been malleable metal, showing off the barest hint of what could be termed teeth.

"Nice to see you on a more normal level, Alina," the green Autobot said, stooping down on one knee and holding out a large black finger.

Well, she'd been around stranger things all day, so shaking hands with a robot wasn't that difficult. With a smile of her own, she reached out and took the proffered finger, noting that Hound wasn't as large as he first appeared. His finger, to be true, was about as long as her arm, or possibly her leg, but that was about as big as he got. Fourteen or fifteen feet at the most, she decided, using her own height as a reference point.

"The same," she replied. The sounds of Hoist's engine had dwindled down to silence, and she peered around the Autobot to look.

Hound took note. "Well, let me just dry off, and I'll show you where the repairs happen."

Sparkplug came around to her left and laid a hand on her shoulder. "In the meantime, why don't I get you some coffee?"

"Tea," she replied automatically. "If you have some."

The older Witwicky pursed his lips, balding brow furrowing as he tried to recall if they had anything of the sort. "Well, I think we might. Carly likes to drink chamomile now and then."

The name was unfamiliar. "Carly?"

Behind his father, Spike's face turned a curious shade of pink. Hound, ever perceptive, began laughing as he wiped his blocky arms with a very large towel. Sparkplug gave a short chuckle at his son's expense as well before answering. "Carly's Spike's girlfriend."

"She is not!" the youth protested, his ears turning red.

"Oh, I think she is, son," his father retorted merrily, grinning and dropping that obvious uncomfortable subject to draw his arm around Alina's shoulders. "C'mon. Let's raid the kitchen."

"Hey! Hound! What the slag is going on here? I just saw Hoist towing some car into the repair bay. What'd you do – go out and make another friend with the locals?"

Sparkplug's arm tightened around her shoulders and half-turned her in order to see a large yellow form stumping towards them. "Sunstreaker," he whispered in her ear. "All bark, usually, but he can sure as hell bite – hard."

Hound folded his arms, the rag dangling from his fingertips casually. "You could say that," he replied nonchalantly. "Just helping a friend of Spike and Sparkplug's."

Sunstreaker stopped right in front of Hound, towering over the rougher, stockier Jeep. The yellow mech's face could very well have been termed classical, Alina thought, had it not been for the sneer that was stretched across it. "Right. You seem to like collecting humans like Spike here collects those little cardboard things with other humans' images on it. Just one more, eh, Hound?" And he jabbed the Jeep in the side with his hard, rounded elbow joint. Hound grunted, but bulldog-like, stood his ground without much movement.

Sunstreaker, seeing that there was no game to be had here, snorted and turned on his heel, stalking back to the rear of the bay.

"Well," the Jeep announced, seeming to stuff the rag directly into his right side, "shall we go on?"

Alina, a little more perturbed than scared, tipped her head in the direction that Sunstreaker had taken. "I take it he doesn't like us?"

Hound gave a short, rueful laugh. "Oh, I think he likes Spike and Sparkplug well enough, Chip, too – it's just that too many makes him a little uneasy." He paused, grinning. "Just don't tell him I said that, or he'll have my head as a target on the range. Well, this way."

Sparkplug dropped his hand from Alina's shoulder and turned to his son. "Why don't you run to the kitchens, Spike, and see if there's any tea? We'll be in Repairs."

Eagerly, the younger Witwicky bobbed his head and jogged off down a hall in the right wall of the bay. Alina watched him go, falling into step beside Sparkplug as they walked with Hound. "You know, Mr. Witwicky, you really didn't have to go through all this trouble …"

Sparkplug merely smiled. "What're old family friends for, Alina? You changed more of Spike's diapers than I did – I figure it's a fair trade."

She grinned at the old memories of chasing little Spike around the living room as he waved his diaper about, completely nude. Such recollections would certainly "scar" the young man for life – especially in the presence of his newfound friends. "I guess so …"

The main bay branched off into several halls and an elevator. Hound evenly paced them down the center hall and down a short slope, which quickly opened up into a wide theatre. Burnt orange seemed to be the theme of this ship, she decided, glancing about at the walls, floor and ceiling. The only other color was the blue of the screens, and the odd lines that stretched across them. A rather squat Autobot with a nozzle for a hand had her Cavalier up on a platform and was tinkering with something in the undercarriage. A brand new tire was sitting squarely in place of the flat. Other than themselves, there was no one else around.

"How's it coming, Hoist?" Hound called out affably. The one-handed Autobot ducked from underneath the platform and dusted off his one appendage.

"Tire's changed, but I found a few things worth tinkering with – if you don't mind," he added, inclining his head towards Alina.

Startled, it took her a moment for speech to kick in. Well, if she was getting a tune-up for free, why the hell not? "Of course," she said at last with a little head-bob of her own. "I really appreciate what you're doing for me. It's really nice of you."

Hoist chuckled. "Well, I figure a few good deeds will help the population see us as more than rampant war machines. This should take about an hour of your time; I'll call you when it's ready." With a little wave of his fingers, he ducked back under the platform and got to work.

"Here's your tea, Alina," Spike called out, walking with short, quick steps towards them, a steaming mug in hand. Smiling, she took it and breathed deep of the mist that was rising from the mug: chamomile. Not her favorite by any means, but it was palatable – and hot.

"I also brought you a brush."

Shocked, Alina almost dropped her tea. Sparkplug turned to glare at his only child. "Spike …" The younger Witwicky's face dropped, along with the brush which he began to stuff back into his pocket.

Glancing around for a place to put her mug, Alina let it sit by her foot as she plucked the brush from Spike's fingertips. "No, no, it's all right, Mr. Witwicky." _No wonder that big yellow bucket looked at me so rudely_, she thought, trying to get the brush through that first snarled lock of hair without yelping. _I must look like a bird's nest._

Sparkplug's face softened a little, and some light returned to Spike's. "All right," he relented. "And, Alina?"

She looked up from a particularly nasty knot at the tips. Sparkplug winked at her. "Call me 'Sparkplug', okay? 'Mister' makes me feel too old."

"Old habits die hard?" she offered up with a grin.

"Sometimes they do," he agreed. "Look, we can sit over here. The Autobots humanized a lot of the Ark as a courtesy to us. I like to sit here and watch Ratchet and Wheeljack work, and up in Medical, too. Sometimes they let me help. I figure it's the least I can do."

There was a small table for two in a safe corner of the work area, far away from the massive equipment, but angled so that anyone could see all of the large repair bay. Spike took the opportunity to wander away, down another hall, his adolescent mind having had enough of grown-up conversation for one day.

Sparkplug talked quietly of various things that went on at the Ark, and as he did, Alina kept her counsel, alternating sipping at her tea and brushing her hair. At one point, sometime around eight o'clock, a low purr of an engine echoed around the main bay, pushing forward to announce the arrival of another Autobot.

"That'd be Mirage," Hound informed them, probably more for Alina's benefit than anyone else's. She half-suspected that Sparkplug, having been around the Autobots for so long, knew their sounds by heart.

To her surprise, it wasn't a car, per se, that approached – rather, it was a sleek white-blue Indy F-1 racer, much like the ones her father would occasionally watch when he was bored and there was nothing else on. Setting her empty mug on the table, Alina leaned forward and watched with growing interest as the race car twisted, turned and expanded into a lithe mech with a blue helm that framed his light blue face much like a pharaoh's headdress. He walked over to a cabinet set into the opposite wall, leaving little puddles in his wake; popping a door, he pulled a large white towel out and started fastidiously wiping himself off.

"How's the weather?" Hound asked casually, leaning up against the platform as Hoist finished his machinations.

"Wet," the other mech grunted, turning the towel around and using the drier side on his head. "Real nasty down in sector twelve; not a Decepticon in sight. Personally, I think they're planning something."

"Really."

Mirage turned the towel around, as if inspecting it. He tossed it on the countertop and reached for another, wiping around his legs. "Haven't heard a whisper in a week. I call that suspicious."

Hound laughed. "Maybe they just don't want to get waterlogged."

The Ligier tipped his head, giving the Jeep a sardonic arch of his brow ridge. "They live in an _underwater base_, Hound. I call that waterlogged." Three more towels landed on the counter before the white-blue mech considered himself presentable. "What's this – some new project, Hoist?"

"Naw, just doing a friend of Sparkplug's a favor. Fixing a tire and a few other things."

"Hrmph."

Alina was so caught up in their conversation that she failed to realize that the one called Mirage was suddenly looking directly at her. His face was set in an expression that almost matched the one Sunstreaker had been wearing, except that it looked less … feral – and more bored.

"Mirage," Sparkplug called out, "this is Alina. She used to baby-sit Spike for us when she was younger."

Unlike Hound, who had come down to her level, Mirage merely put his legs apart and bent at the waist joint with a slight whine of hydraulics to look her over. An expression of unease crossed his face, as if he were unaccustomed to the sound. "Well, nice to meet you." He stood up and turned away. "Where's Ratchet? I need a quick check."

"It's just a little squeak, Mirage," Hoist offered amiably. "It'll go away. Just stand by a heater or something."

Apparently, this one was not meant for humor, Alina decided as Mirage frowned. Without another word, the white and blue mech moved away, out of the bay – vanishing. Completely _gone_.

"I must look like a fool, gaping all the time," she noted wryly, trying to force her jaw back into position, looking towards Sparkplug.

"Actually, you're taking it better than most," he admitted, folding his hands over the tabletop. "We've had some people here – like Spike's friends or a few odd individuals – and they positively pee on themselves when one of the Autobots who doesn't look 'normal' turns the corner. One actually did when – would you believe it – Mirage popped out of nowhere. Nothing intentional, but that guy just wanders up and appears whenever he feels like it."

"And that's what makes me the best," a cultured voice noted from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

Alina jumped in her seat, but Sparkplug merely looked annoyed, even though Mirage's remark sounded a bit … humorous. "Like that," the elder Witwicky gestured pointedly.

"Hate to break up the party, but your car's ready, Alina."

She looked up to see Hoist lowering the Cavalier to the floor and giving the front bumper a wipe with a rag. "Actually, I replaced all the tires with a type of rubber that shouldn't go flat so easily." Though Hoist possessed no discernable mouth, Alina got the impression from his flashing blue optics that he was smiling.

Getting up, she walked over to the car and looked at Hound and Hoist. "I can't thank you guys enough. Really."

"Not a problem," Hoist affirmed, reaching down to shake hand to pinky. "Stop by when you can."

"Exactly," Hound agreed.

"Alina, why don't you give me your number. We should have dinner together, your family and us, sometime. Catch up."

Brightening, she looked around for something to write with, having nothing in her slightly odorous pockets that wasn't useless. Sparkplug pulled pen and paper from his work shirt pocket and passed it over, and she hastily scribbled not only her number, but her address as well. Sparkplug tucked it away safely and caught Hound's attention. "Could you show Alina down? I don't want her getting hurt in the dark."

The green mech nodded. "I was going to offer, actually." He backed up and in a few short motions, reverted back to the Jeep that Alina had first mistaken him for. It was an amazing process, she thought as she climbed into the Cavalier and started the car. A purr unlike anything she'd ever heard from the silver vehicle's engine was startling until she remembered Hoist's improvements. _Perhaps this day isn't shot after all …_

Hound pulled out in front of her and she followed, carefully navigating through the enormous orange hall and out into the dark and cool Oregon night.


	2. Firm Opposition

**Chapter Two  
**Firm Opposition

_And every time you hear the rolling thunder  
__You turn and run before the lightening strikes  
__And does it ever make you stop and wonder  
__If all your good times pass you by.  
_Sheryl Crow, "Good is Good"

Not a few days later, Alina rolled out of bed and turned on the TV to see a news report of the first Decepticon attack in weeks. She sat there, hunched in her blue jammies, a box of Cheerios and a glass of milk sprawled on the floor beside her, staring intently at the screen. The camera panned in real-time across the barren fields, pock-marked with impressions of giant feet and scored with laser blasts. Bits of metal and glowing pink pools of some liquid were strewn with negligent care.

"Last night," the reporter relayed in quick succession, the ABC News symbol tight in the corner, "a band of four Decepticons met in battle with a contingent of Autobots in a cornfield not six miles from Des Moines. At this time, we do not know what it is they were after, but we are trying to see if we can get an interview with the leader of the Autobots, Optimus Prime." The camera zoomed over the man's shoulder to a large figure looming in the distance.

The box of Cheerios tipped over, spilling their grainy ovoids all over the carpet, as she shuffled forward to sit directly in front of the television. Faintly, she wondered why she was so concerned all of a sudden – over the past year and a half since they'd arrived, she'd not been too interested. She would catch the odd report, but since no one was storming Portland – yet – she, like every other citizen, had been lulled into a false sense of "it's not going to happen _here_".

On-screen, the great patriotic bulk of Optimus Prime was captured in three-quarter's view, one arm extended and pointing at the destruction. A smaller black and white robot, with his car-mode's doors jutting over each shoulder like a pair of stubby wings, was seen to be nodding and writing on a pad. Other Autobots were sweeping the fields, picking up debris and stuffing it into large canisters, which they then loaded onto a flatbed.

Suddenly, the camera's view was obstructed by the enormous blue leg of an Autobot who had simply _appeared_. "Mirage," Alina found herself whispering, hands planted in the mass of breakfast cereal. There was an undignified squawk from the reporter, and an ever higher-pitched yelp from the cameraman at the mech's sudden arrival.

The camera zoomed backwards furiously after a few moments of staring intently at the scorched ground. "Ah – ah," the newsman gibbered, trying to regain control. "Here we have one of the Autobots now." With the sun gleaming almost regally behind his pharaonic head, Mirage's face winked into view. "Sir, would you mind telling us what occurred here last night?"

The white and blue robot tilted his head down and peered directly into the camera's lens. "I've been told to inform you that this area is unsafe for humans, as there might be some contamination left from Decepticon weaponry. For now, you are required to vacate the premises. Brawn and Windcharger will escort you to your van."

"Ah –"

There was a scuffle off-camera, then a deep bass voice proclaimed: "Okay, buddy, let's pack that thing away. Here we go, march nicely …"

"Ah – back to you, Peter!"

Quickly, the picture flashed to Peter Jennings looking slightly confused. Alina sat back and turned off the TV, memories of her one encounter with the Autobots still fresh in her mind. In that one moment, they had not appeared as monsters or irreprehensible war machines, but, as Hoist had noted, _people_. Metallic and massive, but _people_ with distinct personalities. That much she had been able to discern.

An ancient cuckoo-clock in the corner peeped the hour, bringing Alina back to reality with a jolt. Realizing that she might very well be late, she scrabbled a few Cheerios into a bowl, doused them with milk and slurped the whole thing.

When she arrived at the office not thirty minutes later, her presence wasn't immediately noticed. It seemed that all of her coworkers had been watching the very same program as she had been caught up in.

"Sooner or later, some of those aliens are going to come stomping through here," Joe in Management was affirming to the Advertising crew. "And where will we be?"

"Relocating?" Katrina joked, folding her arms over her rather pert breasts. Alina slid past them, uncomfortable with joining this line of conversation. The whole office had a decidedly anti-Autobot feel to it.

"Hey, Alina!"

Startled, she turned around, hand on the railing that led to Mr. Harper's office. "What?"

Joe was waving her over – not a good sign, she told herself, gritting her teeth. "We want your opinion. You've always been good at seeing both sides."

Forcing herself not to grimace, Alina pushed a lock of black hair from her face and resorted to that age-old excuse: "Mr. Harper will want me to call up the mayor's office or something, Joe," she replied. "You know how things are – the Autobots hurting the city's image and all."

Joe's mouth twitched, brows furrowing. "Actually, that's where Harper is – he and Bell are stuck at city hall right now. They called about fifteen minutes ago. There's nothing pressing at the moment, so we don't have to do anything except stay until they release us."

She blinked. "We're getting paid to talk?"

Katrina laughed. "Isn't that what public relations is all about, honey? Oh, I forgot, you were an English major …"

Alina smiled sweetly at the tired, old jab. "Yeah. Well, I'm going to go upstairs. Call me if you need me."

Harper had a TV in his office and he'd occasionally turn it on if there was something he was interested in. During lunch, Alina was free to use it; seeing that Harper wasn't in, she supposed that there was no harm in having it on while she did some light secretarial work while the others slothed about downstairs.

After returning a few phone calls and typing up some referrals, Alina found herself bored. With no call from Harper or Bell, many of her coworkers were contemplating packing up and heading out before the lunchtime crowd.

At one point, Josie and Nancy tried to coax her down to join in whatever discussion was currently running, but again, she refused politely. Something told her that it would inevitably turn to the Transformers, and for some reason, she didn't feel like telling them about her encounter. Not with the animosity that Joe had displayed.

With the TV providing white noise, she sat in the window and looked down at the few people milling below. In the distance, a siren began to wail and the pedestrians stopped, craning their necks; cars pulled over to allow a cruiser to pass, its lights flashing. The window of cruiser was down, and – there was no one driving! Alina jumped, pressing her nose to the glass. The police car was moving slowly enough so that she could just make out the red symbol on its hood – an Autobot!

"Hey!" someone yelled up the stairs. "Autobots are coming!"

Forgetting herself, she leapt from the sill and almost skidded down the staircase to reach the bottom. Her coworkers were flooding the narrow strip of sidewalk in front of the firm, pressing against each other to catch this unusual sight.

"I wonder if they're coming from Des Moines," someone murmured.

"That quickly? They must have rockets in their asses or something. It's too far!"

"What, you think they guzzle the shit we have to put in _our_ cars?" another person scoffed, sniffing with disdain.

The Autobot cruiser turned the corner, followed closely by two Lamborghinis: one red, the other yellow. The fancy automobiles were flanking a yellow-purple mini-truck pulling a flatbed with several barrels strapped to it. Sitting in the back was a small, stout yellow Autobot, no bigger than a very tall human – and Spike. Stunned, Alina could only stare as the two swung their feet off the back of the flatbed, talking amongst themselves. It took no eagle-eye to notice the gun strapped to the little fellow's back.

And then, much to her chagrin, Spike called out: "ALINA!" and waved furiously. The yellow mini-robot turned his head and waved, too, a large smile plastered on his face.

Later, she would reflect on the day: was she embarrassed to have been in their company? No. Embarrassed to know the Witwickys? No. But it was the looks on her coworkers' faces and the inevitable words they would be having with her in short time that wished that Spike had not done that. There were many people not in favor of the Autobots at Harper-Bell – except (now) her.

Meekly, lest she be impolite, Alina lifted her hand and waved back.

"See," she could hear Spike telling his Autobot friend, "that's the lady I was telling you about."

"Yeah, pretty cute, just like you said …"

Alina had just enough time to catch Spike's horrorfied expression before the trailer was pulled out of view and around the corner. And that was enough to bring a smile – albeit shortlived – to her face.

Katrina nudged her as the others began to disperse. "You _know_ them?" It was almost an accusation bordering on bigotry.

Alina kept her face turned towards the corner as she replied, "I baby-sat Spike."

Her coworker sniffed, contemplating her next words. "Really. Then I guess you should call up that boy's parents and tell them to smarten up and not let him run around with war machines."

The barb hit home. Would Katrina ever know how good a parent Sparkplug was? How deeply he cared for Spike, his only connection to his dead wife? Alina turned on her heel, chin raised to retort when there was another murmur from the retreating crowd. Around the corner came four more Autobots: the first, she immediately recognized as Hound, followed by a ladder truck; close on the engine's figurative heels was another familiar figure: Mirage. And closing the gap was a massive red cab-over semi pulling an equally-massive grey trailer, emblazoned with the Autobot symbol. A beacon for all to see – and to acknowledge. And who was lounging in the cab of the semi but Sparkplug himself!

As they passed, the older Witwicky looked over, smiled, and tipped his hard-hat in recognition.

Feeling decidedly snarky, Alina stepped up to the curb and waved back. "Kind of hard to discipline your son when you're running around with them yourself, eh, Kat?" With a turn of her heel, the raven-haired woman walked away from the spluttering older lady and into the building.

She managed to get to the stairs and shut the door to the office before they came clamoring after her. Being the youngest hire in recent years did not make her many friends, but she had found a few affable souls with whom to pass the time and idle chatter. However, those likeminded individuals were more likely to be swept away by bigger personalities such as Joe and Katrina.

The TV was still on and, wonderfully, broadcasting the caravan. Alina watched a moment before the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Alina? Is that you?"

"Oh, Mr. Harper – how are things going?" She slid around her desk and sat down, cradling the phone against her ear.

"Not good," he admitted. "The mayor's having an aneurysm over this whole convoy thing that the news is reporting. We'll have our work cut out for us, that's for sure." He paused, and in the background, Alina could hear passionate shouting. "Look, Alina, we're not going to be out of here anytime soon, so there's no point in any of you staying. We'll have to work double-time come tomorrow to sort this thing out, but for now, why don't you go home?"

Well, there were certainly a lot of things she could be doing before lunchtime arrived! "Are you sure, sir?" she asked, as was expected.

"Definitely. Let them know that there'll be a meeting promptly at 7AM tomorrow – and come prepared with any idea they can muster. We need to save this city's image, Alina, and it's not going to be easy erasing the stigma of 'Autobot Central'."

Eyes downcast, she murmured, "Of course, sir," and when the line went dead, settled the phone back into its cradle. Grabbing her coat and purse, she stood quietly in front of the closed door, gathering strength before flinging it wide.

"We're loose!" she called out, making a bee-line for the exit. Someone grabbed her by the arm.

"What'd Harper say?" Joe asked.

"7AM meeting tomorrow, come with ideas for how we're to erase 'Autobot Central' from Portland's image," she parroted back easily enough, tugging free.

"Humph," was all he said, and promptly let her go.

Twisting around the door, Alina made for the parking lot, jumped in her car and promptly pulled out into the street. As she drove, people were still walking up and down the sidewalks, talking and pointing. Some of them made eye-contact with her, which made her a little uneasy. She supposed that the population was a little tired of being under constant fear of attack, but it wasn't as if she had anything to do with it. All she'd done was wave …

Sighing, she turned on the radio and headed for home.

----------------------------

Meetings at Harper-Bell were a casual affair, much like their dress code. As Mr. Harper's assistant, she wasn't required to add anything to the conversation or provide any ideas as to their current client's needs. However, with recent events, Alina found herself very much the participant. She sat near Mr. Harper at the head of the table, off to the side with a legal pad in one hand and a pen jutting over one ear. The senior staff was arranged around the table, ending with Mr. Bell at the opposite end with his assistant, June.

Harper leaned forward. "All right. You've all had the better part of a day to come up with ideas as to how we can change Portland's image. There's nothing we can physically do about the Autobots, but we can bring back the tourists. The city is giving us a huge grant in order to do this, along with a sizable check if and _when_ we succeed." He stared pointedly around the table. "And we will. There are a lot of firms out there, but they came to us." He paused, catching their eyes. "Yesterday's events didn't help us any, not with that stunt they pulled by coming down this street with their toxic waste."

Joe tapped his fingers on the table reflectively. "I think what we need to do is force the Autobots to reconsider coming through the city in the first place. There are a lot of back roads and fields they can run rampant over – hell, they can walk, they don't need to drive."

Harper nodded for him to continue. "We need to make them feel unwelcome. I did some research last night … our economy has dropped by ten percent in the last six months due to their continued presence in the streets. People aren't feeling safe; they're afraid that they'll be squished, run over, or blasted."

"Interesting," Harper murmured.

Alina hunched over her pad, noting the main points of the conversation as words flew all around when she suddenly realized that she was being addressed. "Sir?"

Harper leaned over. "Katrina was just telling me that you happen to know two people who deal with the Autobots on a regular basis. How did this come about?"

Shocked, Alina glanced over at Katrina, who wiggled her fingers at her from the table's edge. _Why, that bitch_ … she snarled under her breath. Calming herself, she set her pad on her lap and faced her boss. "Well, I used to baby-sit Spike Witwicky when he was younger, and I spent a lot of time with them later, after his mother died. I wasn't aware of their connection to the Autobots." _… until a few days ago_, she silently finished.

Harper was scribbling something, and as she glanced over, saw that he was writing Spike's name on a napkin. "And what is this youth's father's name?"

_Really, how many people out there are named "Witwicky"?_ she wondered wryly. "I don't know what his real name is – my parents always called him 'Sparkplug'. No one else has ever referred to him as anything different."

"Mr. Harper," Joe interrupted. "What good is knowing these things? If these Witwickys are close to the Autobots, they're useless in our campaign."

Mr. Bell was nodding. "True, Finnegan, but it's worth knowing in the long run." He leaned forward. "How close are you to the Witwickys, Michaels?"

Alina had been in Public Relations long enough to know the dark side, but never had she been called upon to fuel it. "We've drifted since I went to college." This line of questioning was concerning her – very deeply. It was wrong, she knew it. "Sirs," she began, looking around, "I really don't see how this is going to help the firm."

Harper and Bell looked at each other; Mr. Bell folded his arms. "Michaels has a point. We'll pursue another vein for now, but we'll keep her involvement with the Witwickys in mind."

Almost relieved, but not, Alina took her pen and got back to making notes as she was supposed to be doing. What she was being paid to do.

The meeting drew to a close with some answers, but most were unpolished and probably wouldn't help matters. It was lunchtime as Alina was gathering up her notes; everyone else had left, except for June, who followed the same ritual. Stuffing her things in a satchel, Alina waved to June and left, turning her card over for lunch.

Sweet spring air with just a touch of old winter mixed in, blew across her face as she exited the firm and began walking down the street. There was a little café not too far from here that made the best sandwiches, and she could clear her head with a cool drink.

"Can an old man buy you lunch?"

Alina turned around to see Sparkplug leaning up against one of the buildings. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Why – of course."

The elder Witwicky grinned and took her arm, tucking it in his own. "Spike's running around with Carly so I thought I'd try and catch you for a quick snack."

"That's really nice of you." How ironic was it that the man she had almost implicated moments before would be out here, treating her to lunch? Her job was important and one of the best around, but she couldn't let them be kept in the dark about matters – whatever the consequences might be. Glancing around, and eliciting a concerned arch of the brow from Sparkplug, she drew close and told him about the meeting.

"That's real nice of them," he said at last. "Here the Autobots are, trying to save their butts, and they want to kick them out because of a few bucks." The older man shook his head in disgust. "Yeah, I know you probably shouldn't be telling me this, but I appreciate it. I don't know what Prime'll make of it, but he'll be glad you did."

She nodded a little sadly. "What happened in Des Moines?" she felt compelled to ask, knowing that it was something she could have over the firm.

"Oh, that." Sparkplug indicated a small deli and helped her into her seat under a neat little umbrella. "Old Megs got into his buckethead that he needed some experimental cells from a plant that was converting corn into fuel. So he sent Starscream and his airheaded Seeker buddies to snatch the plans. Skyfire happened to be out there at the time and he relayed their coordinates. It all went down pretty smoothly, considering."

The names and terms, baring Megatron's, were unfamiliar to her, but she acquiesced all the same. "And what about that little parade past my workplace?" She tried not to sound accusatory, and put a little smile into the query.

Laughing, Sparkplug motioned for a waiter. "That was Hound's idea. He said you mentioned that you'd never seen Autobots on the street before, so he managed to convince Prowl to make a pass on our way back to base. Prime thought it was a nice gesture. By the way … nothing in those barrels were toxic, if anyone asks at your firm. Just broken bits and pieces from the battle."

Alina passed her order to the waiter after a quick perusal of the menu. "I just don't know why they're jumping on me all of a sudden," she admitted. "It's as if they're all Autobot-phobic or something."

"Money's the root of all evil," Sparkplug quoted wryly. "Don't do anything that makes you uncomfortable, Lina – but I don't have to tell you that. We'll back you up if they want to fire you."

She shuddered at the thought. "I hope it doesn't come down to that – but they sure are riled up. What you did yesterday didn't help matters."

"Well, let them whine, they're not going away," he replied, sipping at the drink the waiter unobtrusively put before him. "Like it or not, the Autobots are here to protect us. And they're doing so in the midst of their own personal war. It'd be nice if people could understand that."

Alina leaned on her elbows. "True. I got that much from them the other day."

"You're more than welcome back, you know," Sparkplug told her, smiling. "And no matter what Sunstreaker says, Hound doesn't collect people. He's a social 'bot, bringing folk around now and then, but a lot of them don't like what they see – either that, or they try to exploit his generosity. Leaves old Hound pretty hurt."

The offer was pretty tempting, and Alina found herself nodding in acceptance. "Only if you promise to make your famous chili," she joked, digging into her sandwich with a wink.

Barking laughter rolled from deep within Sparkplug's barrel chest. "You know, you and your father are the only ones who like that stuff. Spike still refuses to touch it."

"I told him, he doesn't know what he's missing."

Running his fingers through his thinning hair, Sparkplug's face suddenly turned somber. "But seriously, Alina, I think the Autobots need more friends. Spike, Carly, Chip and I can't do it by ourselves."

Bits of lettuce and tomato dribbled down her chin at the change in tone. Hastily, she dabbed at her face with a napkin. "I … I don't know what I can do."

Sparkplug shrugged. "Educate them, I guess. Let them know that they mean us no harm."

"I can … try," she finally allowed. And that seemed good enough for him. The rest of her lunch hour was passed in idle conversation, and though he'd brought up some heavy topics, Alina was sad to hug him good-bye. Alone, she walked back to the office and found that things were back to normal, at least on the surface.

* * *

The evening news was no different than the program that had been broadcast the night before – indeed, it was no different than from what she had watched that morning. Alina lay curled up on her couch, a mug of tea and a good book sitting beside her, both untouched. Sparkplug's words rolled over in her mind, and that of Harper's and Joe's and Katrina's. 

Really … how could have one rainy day and a flat tire spiraled into such uncertainty?

_Your job or your friends_, she mused miserably, listening to the chatter of the news-anchors in the background. Images of the Ark flashed by along with a montage of chaos. Commentary included how badly the Autobot-Decepticon war had disrupted familial life all over the world. There was an interview of various people who all seemed to have the same opinion: the Transformers had to leave.

Their deep-set animosity rankled Alina. Chaos was a part of war; it wasn't as if they'd consciously chosen to be here. With a low snarl, she flicked off the set and rolled around on the couch, images and words floating past her eyes.

A good night's sleep would settle her. And so, she turned off the lights and lay right there on the couch, drifting uneasily, but slowly, into sleep.


	3. No News Would Be Preferable

**Chapter Three  
**No News Would Be Preferable

_There's an "answer" somewhere for sure / _**kitto dokoka ni "kotae" aru  
**_The answer for why we were born_ / **umarete-kita kotae ga  
**_Everyone is seeking for that, going_ / **hito wa minna, sore wo motome  
**_towards helpless dreams he can't set free_ / **yarusenai nogasenai yume ni mukau no  
**Megumi Hayashibara, "Give a Reason" Slayers

A crisp and cool breeze blew past the woman bundled in a tight sweater standing on the curb, looking furtively in either direction, her black boots tapping restlessly on the pavement as she waited. Wouldn't robots be equipped with better ways of keeping time? she idly thought, looking at her watch.

What Alina was doing here, standing on a remote corner of downtown Portland, she could barely convince herself. She'd received a rare phone call from her older brother Richard the night before (rare, because Rich was always the last one to take the initiative) and somehow the conversation had turned to the Witwickys and Transformers.

"Geez, Lina. If I were you, I'd be throwing the finger to every goddamn stiff in that joint and driving up to that mountain."

"But I'm worried, Rich," she'd admitted.

"About what?"

"About what they'll think."

Her brother's tone changed to one of indignation. "Since when has my sister given a shit about what people think about her?"

"That was high school …"

"Awr, shit, Lina. Screw it. I think you're reading too much into this. You had one encounter with them – and they're offering to let you come back. I say fuck the firm and have fun. If they happen to find out, that's their problem."

Candid and frank – that was her older brother. So, she shoved her worries to the back of her mind just like he said, and discovered, after she thought about it for a while, that she was eager to see them again. She would take her lumps if they were given to her – being fired for fraternizing with the alleged enemy was locked tightly in the back of her mind, but she'd deal with that later.

"Just don't tell Mom and Dad," she cautioned her over exuberant sibling. And Richard had laughed.

"If only to keep Dad from begging a ride."

Sparkplug had not left her with a number with which to contact him, so she had to use her own firm relations to find someone who did. It took a while and a few lies, but she was able to get in touch with a laboratory that had a favorable opinion of the Autobots.

"Oh, yes," the elderly scientist on the other end told her, "they helped with the electrocell fiasco a few months ago. Though, I'm afraid I can't give you the contact number – it's highly classified. I'm sorry, my dear."

Dejected, she calculated how long it would take her – in the daylight – to drive up to the mountain stronghold. But she quickly shot down that line of thought. _Better let them know when I'm coming_, she noted, crossing off that idea on a pad with a thick swatch of ink.

She'd run out of ideas by the time her phone rang – it was Sparkplug. After telling her that the Ark had gotten a call from the Experimental Laboratory concerning a young woman inquiring about how to get in contact with a Mr. Witwicky, the older man had realized the error of his way. He apologized for not giving her a contact number, but noted that there were few people out there who could actually have it. It wasn't something that he could bandy about, he lamented. "But I tell you what – meet me downtown, by the grocer's. I'll be there in about thirty minutes to pick you up."

"Why not here?" she'd asked.

The ironic silence was enough of an answer. She quickly agreed and got ready.

And so she stood, looking fairly foolish as to not use the crosswalk. A few overfriendly cabbies tried to get her to use their service, but she politely refused each one, stepping further from the curb each time.

At long last, a familiar green Jeep with its even more familiar red symbol pulled up to the curb. Surprisingly, no one seemed to care; some looked twice, but they seemed placated when a human stepped out. _I guess if there's a human present, your car can't possibly be an Autobot in disguise_, Alina wryly thought, hitching the huge collar of her sweater tighter around her neck.

"Sorry," Sparkplug panted. "I was caught up in helping Ratchet fix Mirage's hydraulic system."

"He doesn't like to squeak," Hound offered by way of explanation – quietly, so as not to arouse suspicion. "It doesn't do him any good if he makes any noise while trying to infiltrate the Decepticons."

"What does he do?" she asked as Sparkplug "held" open Hound's door for her to slide in.

"He's our spy – hence the invisibility."

"Oh." It made sense. "I thought he just might be anti-social."

Human and Autobot fairly cracked up at her innocent observation. Alina tilted her head in query, a bit confused. "What?"

Sparkplug settled his hands lightly on the wheel as Hound revved his engine; the Jeep put on his light and pulled into traffic before answering. "Mirage tends to set himself apart from the rest of us for a few reasons. A lot has to do with his 'upbringing' if you will. He'll joke and laugh, spar sometimes, but now and then, he'll wink out and go wandering somewhere. No one asks where he goes anymore – he doesn't like to be questioned. Especially about his loyalty."

Alina pondered the information that she'd been given, turning ideas around in her head. "You don't think that he just goes out to better your chances of winning?"

Hound made a low sound in his engine and several lights blinked. "I don't doubt that sometimes that _is_ what he's doing," he replied thoughtfully. "Don't get me wrong. I _like_ Mirage; he's good company. I'm the last to question anything about anyone," he added as an afterthought. "Anyway, like I said, he prefers to be alone. If there's one thing on Mirage's cortex, it's Cybertron."

Thoughts of the white-blue Autobot drifted from Alina's mind as they approached the Ark. It was even more imposing in the bright daylight. Hound gently chivvied them out of his innards and transformed amidst the rock and cacti. Alina shielded her eyes, staring up and into the great gaping holes of the four boosters. High above, a vulture swung on a low thermal before landing on one of the boosters; it shuffled momentarily, and then bent its head to peer down at them with a keen eye. A sudden thrill shot through Alina's spine as she imagined sitting on those barrels and looking down and out at the desert beyond.

The vulture gave an undignified coughing cry and spread its wings, launching itself from its perch in a flurry of ragged feathers.

"We get a lot of those around here at this time," Hound told her, following her gaze, his hands locked behind his back. "There's a nice variety of wildlife around here – more than I would think could be supported by this environment. Can I take you for a tour later?"

There was such an open honesty about the green mech that Alina couldn't help but smile – and then drop her chin with a grimace, rubbing the back of her sore neck. "I'd love to," she replied, a little sideways. And Hound positively beamed.

Sparkplug coughed politely. "I think I'd best get back to Ratchet. There are a few things that he wanted to show me while he could keep Mirage on the table." A knowing glance passed between human and Autobot; a private joke, it seemed.

Hound paused. "Why don't we show her the medbay, then?" He turned around with a slight hiss and click of parts.

"Sure, wherever," she told him. As if she would know what places to inquire about!

"This way, then, my lady." And off he went, keeping his stride as short as possible without seeming to mince. Even with that consideration, Alina found herself walking at a quick clip in order to keep pace, and by the time they'd ridden up a very large – orange – elevator, she was mildly winded.

The Ark was an amazing place – especially to someone who had no working knowledge of avionics, and only a passing interest in space exploration. (Beside the fact that it was horribly _orange_. She couldn't get over that detail.) After walking down another orange corridor, she thought about asking Hound the reason behind the color scheme, but the hall abruptly opened up into a large theatre.

"It's about time you got back," a gruff voice greeted them. "Mr. Invisible's getting twitchy."

"Maybe it's because you have your finger in my gear shaft?" came the urbane reply. "I'm not exactly comfortable."

"Be quiet," the first snapped.

Alina found herself staring at a more blocky than stocky white robot with red medical crosses on his shoulders and a deep grey chevron stapled to his forehead. Unlike Hound, who seemed to wear an expression of perpetual affability, this Autobot's face was carved into a scowl. His patient was lying on his back, one leg cocked, the other straight out; his fingers were tapping against the undercarriage of the platform impatiently. His chestplate was pulled upwards, almost to his chin, baring his innards for all to see.

Mirage turned his head the moment they entered, and his blue glass eyes seemed to lock onto her. Startled, Alina broke eye-optic contact and concentrated on her surroundings.

The medbay was comprised of several tables all laid out with mathematical precision. A computer bank lined one wall, its myriad screens all uniform blue. Long arms with different instruments strapped to their ends hung from the ceiling above each table; several more were attached to one large unit in the corner. Along the opposite wall was a storage unit stacked from floor to ceiling with more tools – some of which looked like they belonged in a carnival horror show and not a medical unit.

"Well, Hound," the spy drolled, "I see you managed to get one to come back a second time. Not bad."

Hound merely chuckled and walked over to the platform. Sparkplug left Alina's side and joined the Jeep, scurrying up a small ladder and clambering onto the flat bed, a curious pen-shaped instrument appearing in his hand. Without a word, he dove into Mirage's chest, legs hanging off the mech's side like a deranged puppet's.

"I'm sure you remember Alina, Mirage? She stopped by a few nights ago with the flat?"

"Oh?" the spy asked, tipping his head back in her direction. "Oh, yes. I remember." And that seemed to be the end of that little reintroduction, for Mirage pulled himself up on one elbow and stared Ratchet dead in the optic. "Are we done, _yet_?" However, Sparkplug was still fishing around in his chest at the time. A stream of curses amplified by the metal interior bounced around the medbay.

Horrified, Alina could only stare in shock as Ratchet carefully, calmly, pushed Mirage back onto the platform with one firm fist to the throat. The spy fell back, metal ringing on metal. Sparkplug popped out much like a cork would, rubbing his balding pate and clutching a wrench in the other hand.

"Well!" Hound exclaimed with a hearty laugh, "I think we'll be moving onto another section. I'll catch you later, Mirage, Sparkplug. Take care, Ratch." Gently, he put his hand behind Alina's back and deftly maneuvered her out of the medbay.

"Slaggin' impatient elitist …" she could hear Ratchet swearing as they walked away.

"Is Sparkplug okay?" she asked, craning her head around to glimpse the argument that was still raging on.

Hound glanced back, too. "Oh, I don't think anything's been damaged. He once got stuck in Sideswipe's chest and came out all right."

The Autobots were so large, with metallic bodies that had to weigh several tons, yet they moved easily around the Witwickys – and herself. It was almost as if they could perceive something smaller around their feet and made a conscious effort not to break their delicate allies.

Hardly any Autobots were present in the Ark at the time of her arrival. Most were out on patrol or aiding various technical allies they had accumulated over the past year and a half, so there were few for Alina to meet. She did find herself acquainted with the squat yellow fellow whom she had seen with Spike. His name was, cutely enough, Bumblebee, and those Transformers of his size were affectionately referred to as Minibots.

As night fell, Hound came by the empty rec room where she, Spike and Bumblebee were trading stories to drive her home. "Sparkplug wants me to let you know that he's a little tied up with Wheeljack at the moment, so he won't be able to see you off," the gentle green Jeep informed her with a lopsided grin.

A quick check of her watch revealed the ungodly time of 10 o'clock. She needed to be home by 11 to get some decent sleep if she was to get up early for another one of Harper's ass-crack-of-dawn meetings. Waving good-bye to Spike and Bumblebee, she followed Hound outside, where he performed that amazing transformation sequence that still left part of her brain numb trying to figure it out.

Hound was considerate on the drive home, leaving her to stare out the window at the inky landscape as they pulled into the bright, soul-stealing lights of the city. Against Sparkplug's earlier warning, Hound pulled up outside her modest one-floor suburban home, said his good-nights, and drove off into the night.

She stood there a moment, watching the solid red pulse of his tail lights until they vanished around the bend. Her breath misting in the cool near-midnight air, Alina drew her sweater collar up around her ears and turned to enter her home.

Once safely ensconced in bed, she stared at the ceiling, trying to piece together the amazing and odd day she'd had. After her first encounter, she had been left feeling relatively shocked with all the information that had been thrown at her. This time, while still in awe, she'd managed to see the "humanity" behind their metallic exteriors. And that, she thought as her eyes closed with a flutter, was what the rest of the world needed to recognize.

* * *

The Walters were doing repairs – again. Alina leaned against her mirror, brush half-way through her thick black mane. With two fingers, she drew apart the curtain and peered up and over the thin wooden fence that separated her tiny domain from the Walters' ever-changing landscape. Though covered in vines and other easily-cultivated greenery, she could just make out Mr. Walters' Green Bay Packers baseball cap as he tooled around on his riding lawnmower, dragging a thatcher behind him. The consistent _thunk-thunk-thunk_ was enough to drive her crazy – but she was leaving for work in fifteen minutes. Perhaps she could tolerate it a little longer. 

At least they were considerate enough to keep their reformatting to the daylight hours. Still.

Alina tugged the brush on through, grimacing at an unintended snarl. She worked it through and set it aside, tugging at the cuffs of her thick sweater. It was going to be cold today – _cold_. On second thought – she rummaged through her winter drawer and grabbed a pair of svelte black leather gloves that had been her one of her mother's Christmas presents to her last year.

Warm and secure, Alina took one last glance at her busy neighbor before leaving the house. The sun was just peeping over the horizon, flinging wide bands of red-orange-purple across the sky. Gradually, the colors flowed into a perfect rose, followed by the plaintive cry of a mourning dove. Alina smiled to herself, breathed deep – and almost tripped over the woman standing on her stoop.

Stumbling into a yearling lilac bush, Alina bit back the swear that unconsciously rose to mind. What solicitor was out and about at this time of the day?

"Pardon me," the older woman began with a cheery smile, "but are you the owner of this house?"

"Excuse me?" Alina frowned, brushing off flakes of dead leaves from her sleeve. "Who are you?"

The woman's vapid expression did not change at all. She extended her hand without so much as an "I'm-sorry". "I'm Lillian Vanden-Bulke, with the _Times_."

Casting her gaze skyward, Alina then dropped her eyes to her watch. She would be running seriously late if this line of talk continued. "I'm sorry ma'am, but I need to get to work …" She stepped off to the side, heel first in a bit of mud that had not hardened from the rains. With a squelch, Alina grimaced, turning her face up towards the reporter's.

"Oh, it'll just take a moment, miss. I just need a quick answer – yes or no."

What could she possibly want? "Fine," she ground out, yanking her foot from the mud and using the edge of her porch to scrape the worst of it off.

With a self-serving nod, Lillian pulled a piece of paper from her jacket pocket. "Are you Alina Michaels?"

_Shit_, she scuffed the leather! Alina twisted her foot to get a better look at the damage. "I am. – And with that, I'll be going."

Infuriatingly, the woman stepped in front of her with a gracious smile. "Just one more, Ms. Michaels? I will have my boss make a personal call to your establishment to explain your tardiness."

With a sigh, Alina rolled her eyes. Well, it wasn't as if she'd been habitually late – or late at all, for that matter. "Fine," she allowed with a groan.

"Good! Now, is it true that you were in the company of an Autobot the other day?"

The words exploded from her mouth before her brain had the barest of chances at coherency. "EXCUSE ME??"

Lillian looked up from the thin notebook that had suddenly appeared in-hand. "Oh, yes. Didn't you know? The police have been following any vehicle that goes in and out of the road to Mt. St. Hillary for a few weeks now – trying to curtail human involvement with the Autobots."

Icy fingers not associated with the wind began to creep up Alina's spine; the hair on the back of her neck stood at attention. "I …" she grasped for words. "I'm not under arrest, am I?"

"Oh, no, no. A warning at most is all I've heard. I guess the reason why you weren't stopped was because you were with an Autobot. You were, weren't you?"

Ice was quickly replaced with fire. Alina slipped around the infuriating woman and jammed her keys into the car door. "I suggest you get off my property!" she hissed, getting in and shutting the door, effectively cutting her off from the reporter.

By the time she'd pulled into Harper-Bell's parking lot, much of the anger had subsided into a quiet discordance in the back of her mind. Still, she looked around, peering over cars and vans until she was satisfied that there weren't going to be any more surprises – human OR Autobot. Swinging her purse over her shoulder, Alina made for the front door.

Her suspicions were aroused the moment she set her hand on the knob – the vibrations from early-morning employee chatter was swiftly cut in half as she stepped inside. Warily, she drew back, looking around at the line of cubicles framing the front desk. No one would meet her gaze – not even Josie, her supposed friend and the company receptionist.

Hitching her purse higher over her shoulder, Alina closed the door behind her, almost tip-toeing down the carpet. There was Joe, and there was Katrina, locked in their little pre-meeting huddle over the water cooler. As she passed, the blonde bitch held something up between two fingers: a square of orange construction paper. The meaning of Katrina's ploy was lost to Alina – until she got upstairs.

Her desk, which sat squarely in front of Mr. Harper's glass-enclosed office, was stripped of every piece of equipment and plastered with orange construction paper. Even her chair.

"Not bad, eh, Autobot-lover?"

Alina spun around, losing her purse in the process. The bag dropped to the floor, spilling her car keys, wallet and other knick-knacks around her mud-encrusted boots. Her jaw would not close, so indignant and in shock was she over the speed of which news traveled.

_How could they? How could they have known?_ raced through her mind at light speed.

Katrina smirked. "I saw you the other day – on the corner by Johnson's Grocers. I didn't think it could've been possible, but I saw you get _into_ that Autobot. With that same grubby old man who was riding with them that day. I guess your job doesn't mean shit, huh, Alina?"

Positively seething, Alina clenched her fists at her side, if only to keep from grabbing the woman's head and shoving it into her massive breasts.

Katrina continued on in a droll manner. "Guess not. Were you letting them know of our project? I'm sure Harper and Bell would _love_ to hear about this."

"Hear about what, Gregory?" Harper paused on the landing, Bell not a few steps behind him. "And what is this? Michaels? Care to explain?"

"Katrina papered my desk," she deadpanned, staring at the other woman with fire crackling in those blue eyes.

Harper huffed, pulling himself over the landing and going to stand between the two fuming females. "And why did you do that?" He glared at one, then the other, clearly not amused. "Well, spit it out! We have the 'Better Portland' project to work on!"

Katrina drew herself up to her full height of five-foot-nine – plus breasts. "Mr. Harper, I have reason to believe that Alina has been talking to the Autobots."

Bell peered over the landing. "Alina – is this true?"

A cold fury rolled in her belly, slowly turning into a deep nausea. Her job hung in the balance – and so did her credibility. If she was fired, no firm in Portland would take her. "I didn't seek them out," she managed through numb lips. "As I said before – I've known the Witwickys since I was small. So, yes, I met the Autobots, but it had nothing to do with the project." She bit her lip until she drew a dab of blood, trying in vain to keep herself from shouting: _If you don't believe me, ask them!_ Because she _had_ told them. And Sparkplug was not the type to lie.

Harper pulled out her chair, eying the construction paper before sitting down heavily. He folded his hands over the top of her desk, his eyes grave. "This is very serious, Alina." He caught Bell's eye and turned back to her. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave, Alina. You will be paid for the day, but that's all I can promise you until we can come to a decision about your involvement with the Autobots."

Dabbing at her cut lip, Alina could only nod; her eyes welling, she scooped up the contents of her purse and left. Not to her house, but _home_. She needed her mother.


	4. When in Doubt – Fraternize

**Chapter Four  
**When in Doubt – Fraternize

_I've been where you are before  
__No one understands it more  
__You fear every step you take  
__So sure that your heart will break_

_It's not how the story ends  
__You'll be back on your feet again  
_Richard Marx, "Take this Heart"

"I don't believe this," Sparkplug scoffed, flicking the back of his hand against the top portion of local paper. "It really seems as if that firm of Alina's is going through with that 'Better Portland' scheme." He snorted and sipped his coffee.

"What do they plan on doing, Dad?"

Sparkplug rustled the page and smoothed it over to read the tiny type better. "Hm, they seem to want the public's opinion on what needs to be accomplished first. There's going to be an open forum tonight."

Gently, the cups and plates on the low table began to jiggle; the chairs the Witwickys were sitting in began to shake with the vibrations from two massive feet. A figure paused in the doorway to their little Ark enclosure: red and white and blue, Optimus Prime's thick digits wrapped themselves around the edge of the entrance, his serene, battlemasked face tilted down towards them. "What's the news, Sparkplug?" he asked, his deep voice resonating around the room.

"Eh, some public relations firm in Portland is trying to stop us from coming through the city."

Prime walked through and leaned up against the door, one hand cupped around his chin. "Is that so," he mused. "If they had a problem with us, why haven't they said anything before?"

"You know people in the government, Prime," Spike scoffed, digging into his eggs. "They don't tell you nothing."

"True," the leader of the Autobots slowly agreed. "Read me the article, would you, Sparkplug?"

"Sure." Flicking the paper open, Sparkplug began to read it in its entirety. He got to the end of the front page and turned to the fourth for the continuance. It was there he stopped dead, lips drawn tight as his eyes scrolled once, then twice, over the information in black and white.

Optimus tilted his head with a slight whine of hydraulics. "Is there something wrong?"

Spike leaned across the table, trying to see what had caused his father to stop so abruptly. With a low growl, Sparkplug slapped the paper down and shoved his chair back. "Those bastards! They fired her!" Giving the chair one last kick, he stalked to the back of the room, grabbed the coffee pot and a new mug and poured himself another cup.

Spike scrabbled for the paper while Optimus looked on, his brow ridges arched in concern. "Spike?"

"One minute. Oh … here it is … It's real small, Optimus: 'Alina Michaels, secretary for Harper-Bell, the public relations firm in charge of Project: Better Portland, was reportedly let go yesterday for her supposed involvement with the Autobot army.' " A shadow covered Spike as the full bulk of Optimus Prime loomed over him. The skin across Spike's shoulders twitched with the sudden proximity of the Autobot leader, but he pushed the discomfort aside, secure in the knowledge that Optimus was in complete control of his body. The Autobot's forefinger (which was almost as large as Spike's own body) pushed the pages aside as he searched for the article, to read it with his own optics. This close, Spike could hear the faint sound of Optimus' optical sensors spinning tightly behind that blue glass as they increased magnification.

"This same young female whom you brought in a few days ago?" he queried in a quiet rumble.

"That would be her," Spike affirmed, looking up to watch as Sparkplug continued to pace his anger at the injustice away.

Sparkplug kicked at the counter with a steel-toed boot. "It's my fault, Prime. She told me about the firm's plans, and I had her come here anyway. I should've known better than to compromise her."

Optimus stood straight and tall. "None of us took this idea seriously," he replied with a shake of his great grey and blue head. "While I cannot change our route for the time being, I suppose I could go to the firm myself and speak on her behalf."

Spike swung around. "Do you think that's wise, Optimus?"

"I don't know about 'wise', Spike, but it's the least I can do."

"And I'll go to the forum tonight, Prime," Sparkplug declared from the kitchen sink. Slowly, Optimus shook his head.

"No, that is the least of my concerns at the moment, Sparkplug, but I do appreciate the effort."

His jaw set tight, the elder of the two Witwickys nodded his acquiescence. Optimus Prime gave them both an inclination of his head before departing. Sparkplug left the counter and reclaimed his chair, staring at the pages before him.

"This really stinks, Dad," Spike noted sadly. "I mean, Alina didn't do anything."

"I know, son, but that's how the world works sometimes." He sighed. "Sometimes … the good people get the short end of the stick."

* * *

Mid-day traffic, for once, got the best of Optimus Prime. He practically crawled through central Portland, well-aware of the acute interest in his progress. The Autobot leader watched them with shrewd optic sensors located in his windshield and headlights. He counted himself very lucky that his crew had found staunch allies in the Witwickys, for if they had not met up with favorable sentients upon their awakening, Prime was convinced that his view of humanity might have been forever tarnished. Humans, like Transformers, came in many forms – and some also preyed upon those of different factions with a ruthlessness long attributed to Decepticons. 

The Autobot leader knew very well that he could not solve every human problem that came along, though many thought that was what they were here for (sometimes, the proliferation of human media worked to their disadvantage). Apparently, they were unaware of a galactic war in their midst, though facts proved to the contrary.

Something cold, wet and decidedly rotten hit Prime in the trailer. The semi swung his sensors about, pinning the culprit easily. Under-developed humans were the least of his concerns; he revved his engine until smoke poured from his stacks, hunkering low on the road. The youth took one look at the half-transformed arm that was coming from the cab and dropped his ammunition, scurrying through the streets. Optimus allowed himself a private chuckle before the light turned green and he moved along with the flow.

Harper-Bell sat on a relatively wide street, so it was easy for Optimus to park along the curb and not disrupt the traffic patterns too badly. Unfortunately, he could not transform and enter the establishment, so he was required to honk – loudly.

It took four toots and a blare of the smoke stacks before someone was brave enough – or lost a bet – to push the front door open and peer around the corner.

"We – don't accept – deliveries," came the stuttering reply.

Optimus rolled himself slightly up on the curb to "stare" at the unfortunate male. "I'd like to speak with Mr. Harper or Mr. Bell, please."

The young male jumped backwards a foot, startled by the resonate voice issuing from the red cab. He glanced back towards the door, which was fairly crowded with the stunned faces of his coworkers. Sensing no support from the peanut gallery, he stammered back, "Uhm, they're not speaking to anyone at this time."

Usually, he was not one to intimidate by sheer physical force; today, Optimus took one last "step" up the curb until he was cab-to-nose with the young man. "Please?"

"Excuse me, excuse me."

Prime swung his sensors in the direction of the door. A tall, weathered male, his brown hair liberally streaked with grey, was pushing through the blockade of employees. He took the younger male by the shoulder and whispered fiercely in his ear. Optimus sat patiently through a stream of invectives no doubt describing his personage, knowing fully well that the human had no idea how powerful his audio sensors were. The greying male pushed the younger one towards the door, pulled on the bottom edges of his tan suit and took a step towards the red cab, now effectively blocking all sidewalk access.

"I'm Jack Harper. And you are?"

"Optimus Prime, Autobot commander."

If he was taken aback, the man had learned to control his emotions well; all that betrayed his surprise was the slight pulsation of his pupils as Prime identified himself. Harper coughed. "Well, Mr. Prime – what can we do for you?"

Optimus rolled backwards, enough to give the man some semblance of comfort space. "I'm not here about your campaign, Mr. Harper," he began cordially. "Rather, I wish to speak with you on the behalf of one of your employees."

This time, Harper did start. "You know about that?"

"I believe in keeping up with current events, Mr. Harper – even if they do not pertain exclusively to me. I am well aware of your campaign, but you have the right to express your feelings about our presence. But, as I said, this is a matter of one of your employees – Alina Michaels."

Harper visibly drew himself together. "Ms. Michaels no longer works for us, as I'm sure you know – if you keep up with current events, Mr. Prime."

The slight sarcasm was not lost on the Autobot. "At the time of our meeting with Ms. Michaels, had you come to a conclusion about this campaign?"

Harper folded his arms. "I'm not at liberty to discuss the nature of firing employees, as I'm sure you will understand."

Smoke wisped out of the tall stacks on either side of the crimson cab at the reply. "And I am sure you will understand when I say that I believe you wrongly let her go."

Human stared at Autobot long and hard before answering. "I will not reveal the nature of Ms. Michaels' termination from our firm, but I will tell you this: she left under the condition that I will recommend her for any new job she might seek. So, you see, Mr. Prime, it was a willful parting of ways."

Water sprayed from Prime's wipers and onto the nice, pressed suit of the director. "Pardon," he murmured, flicking his wipers back and forth under the pretense of cleaning his windshield. "Well, Mr. Harper, let me leave you with this parting thought: perhaps you should better concentrate your efforts on finding a way for the humans of Portland to _accept_ us rather than to _alienate_ us. Good day." Smoke, thick, dark and black, poured copiously from Optimus' stacks as he backed up and off the curb. With a loud honk, the leader of the Autobots rolled for home, leaving the humans of Harper-Bell stunned.

**--------------------------------**

**AUTOBOT LEADER MEETS WITH HARPER-BELL, **the headline positively screamed. Underneath the large, bold type was a picture of the semi seeming to pin Mr. Harper against the brick. With a low moan, Alina reached for the Tylenol, popped two in her mouth and threw them down with a glass of orange juice. It was bad enough that Katrina had papered her working area orange, but with the announcement of her termination, some discriminating youths had taken it upon themselves to paint her _house_ orange. It had been a sloppy, half-assed job, thankfully, and had only taken her and Richard a few hours – and several beers later – to undo the damage.

"What can they do to me now?" she lamented aloud, draining the glass and setting it aside with a heavy _clank_. _Dump scrap in my yard? Burn effigies of Autobots on the sidewalk?_ What had she done to deserve being suddenly and unexpectedly ostracized?

_Thank you, Life, for fucking me up the ass with a piece of space-junk_, she snarled, tossing the paper aside.

Her doorbell rang, and Alina jumped. "GO AWAY! NO MORE INTERVIEWS!" she screamed, palming the glass to use as a projectile.

The reply was soft and muffled by two inches of oak. "It's just me, Lina. Can I come in?"

A low sob caught in her throat; two tears, one from each liquid eye, trickled silently down her sharp cheeks. Slowly, she walked to the door and put her hand to it. "Please, Sparkplug, no more," she whispered through the crack. "I just want to get on with my life."

"Prime was trying to help …"

"Tell him 'thank you', but no more. I can't …" A fat tear rolled from her eye to land with an audible splat on the hardwood floor.

Outside, Sparkplug's head bobbed and weaved in the window, trying to discern her location. "Lina, please. Just let me in."

Indecision raged hard and deep within her mind. Several more tears fell on her floor before she decided to open up the door. To her surprise, Sparkplug swept in and covered her with a huge bear-hug, like the ones he used to give her as a little girl. Frustration spilled from her eyes as she wept long and hard on the shoulder of the man who had been, in part, responsible for her termination.

"There, there, sweetheart. It'll be all right."

"Will it?" she sobbed, her throat tight with crying. "Five years and a promotion down the drain?"

"It will," he avowed, squeezing her shoulders supportingly. "You're young, smart and come with an impeccable record."

"Until now …"

Sparkplug coughed, embarrassed by his slight. "Yes, well, there are bigger, better places of employment than that crappy old firm. Your talents are wasted as a secretary."

Alina's only response was a low, shuddering moan. Sparkplug gave her a brisk, firm pat on the back and held her at arms' length. "Come on a walk with this old man, huh?"

Sniffling, Alina dragged her sleeve across her nose. "Walk?" she repeated, dabbing at her eyes with the other sleeve. "No Autobots?"

The older man laughed genially. "No, no Hound, Prime or Bumblebee – just you and this old man."

Despite herself, Alina found laughter bubbling from her lips. "You're not old, Sparkplug; I don't know why you keep saying that."

"Anything to get you to laugh, girl," he told her, reaching out and tweaking a lock of black. "Now, get something warm on. It's a bit nippy out."

Alina quickly complied, stopping a moment to fix her hair and her face, red-rimmed eyes touched up with cream. Arm and arm, they strolled from the house, going no where and not planning to – just walking.

Presently, Alina began to speak of what else she could possibly do, with Sparkplug chiming in now and then with suggestions. To her immense relief, no one stopped them; perhaps, she thought, she was being too paranoid. News got old very fast; maybe the short human attention span had wandered elsewhere. However, as they were turning the corner to a small park, Alina got the feeling they were being followed.

Cold, icy tendrils once again began to creep up her spine, and she dug her fingers into Sparkplug's bicep warningly. She'd felt that way several times over the past couple of days, and it was beginning to worry her.

"What's wrong?" he whispered, looking down at her with concern.

With a quick spot-check, she leaned close. "I think someone's following us," she hissed back, a touch of fear stealing into her voice. Panic rose in the back of her mind at the prospect of being stalked.

Sparkplug's brows rose perceptibly at her admission. "What makes you think that?" he casually returned.

She paused, scrabbling for an answer that didn't sound foolish. "I … feel it."

Tucking her closer, Sparkplug looked around, trying not to arouse suspicion. "Just keep walking, Lina. If anything happens, I can call for help."

"And how fast can it get here?"

Sparkplug's grin was grim. "Very fast," he tried to assure her. Holding her close, they looked both ways before crossing the street to the park.

While the remainder of the walk produced no visible suspects, the feeling did not leave Alina any more comforted. She and Sparkplug parted ways as the sun was dipping along the horizon. Once inside, she swiftly closed the door and padded through her living room to the other side; pushing the sliding glass door open, she stepped out into her backyard for a little clearing of the mind. The Walters' improvements had halted for the night, and she could hear them cleaning up. Pushing a strand of ivy that was starting to come back to life to the side, Alina peered through the crack in the picket fence. Yes, there was Mr. Walters, brushing off the grass from his thatcher. From the looks of things, this was going to be the last day he'd be using it – the whole yard looked ripped to shreds.

That would mean she'd have quiet until he got out the mulch and compost and began riding around with all that smelly stuff. Joy and rapture.

With a sigh, Alina stepped back – and hit metal. A shriek exploded from her lips, causing Mr. Walters to rush over to the fence. "Ms. Michaels? Are you okay over there? I thought I heard a scream …"

Whipping her head around, Alina stared into the encroaching darkness, illuminated only by the street lights and a few ornamental ones that came on at this time. Panting with fright, she took stock of the situation before replying. "Oh, no, I'm fine Mr. Walters. I just stepped on a trowel in my slippers."

His brown eyeball peered through the fencing, trying to pierce the ivy. "Are you sure? It sounded a little too severe for a trowel …"

Clutching her chest for support, Alina nodded. "It's okay, Mr. Walters. Really. I'm going inside now – have a good night."

"Good night …"

Alina stood there until she could hear him retreat into his own house, and then turned away. She looked all around, but couldn't see a damned thing. What _had_ she run into? – Ass-first, no less, she amended.

_You're cracking up, Lina_, she chastised, running her fingers through her hair. _All this stress is making you go bonkers._

"You seem to have created a lot of trouble," a careful, cultured voice spoke from the ether – softly, as not to incur suspicion.

In her wild spin, Alina found herself smacking an arm into something very hard. With a quiet yelp, she jerked her hand back, nursing it against her chest. Through teary eyes, she watched as the grass seemingly flattened itself into the impression of two very large … feet?

"Me?" she whispered incredulously. "I did nothing wrong!"

"Perhaps," the voice continued. As Alina looked on, the grass flattened more, as if something massive was parking itself on her lawn. And then, as if a heat wave had suddenly come upon her grass, a figure materialized – first the head, with its regal blue helm, then the white shoulders, down to the blue torso, and white and blue legs. A large, shoulder-mounted cannon sat purposefully at his right, the grip of an immense rifle peeking over the other shoulder. "I do find it interesting that your people will ostracize you over such little information."

Her shoulders sagged at his casual remark. "Yeah, don't we all?" she replied, looking at him sideways. Then, a thought occurred to her. "Might I ask why are you here?"

Mirage gave her a slow smile, shifting his body so that he hunkered well below the line of the fence. "Keeping an eye on you – though, I should be doing other things."

His quiet sarcasm was not lost on her; but, her mind was trying to wrap around the fact that someone – an Autobot no less – had been sent out to look after her. And she put that query to Mirage. The spy leaned on his fist, looking down – and possibly – through her. "It was Prime's idea. It's been quiet on the Decepticon front again, so he figured he could spare me." He turned his head from side to side, testing the night sounds for anything suspicious. "Well, I'll be going. Things seem to have calmed down now."

Before Alina's very eyes, Mirage began to fade. An orange prism engulfed him, erased him. Alina walked over to the spot where he'd sat and passed her hand through the air – nothing. He was gone. Idly rubbing her hand, she began walking towards her house, pausing once more to see if she could hear (or feel) anything. No, it was quiet, just as he'd said. As she stepped inside, her last thought was, _Why can't things be normal?_ – and closed the door.

* * *

Mirage paused, looking over his shoulder. Compared to Spike, Chip and Carly, this older human's antics were low on his personal screw-up meter. Through simple happenstance, she'd managed to lose her job and incur the wrath of an entire city. And that all stemmed from meeting with them but twice. She definitely had his sympathy … what was her name? 

Alina? _Mm_, Mirage thought as he walked the silent streets, the grip of his rifle clutched gently in his right fist. _I never thought I'd give a human my pity, but I think she deserves it_. His thoughts began to wander back in time, to the days following his join-up with the Autobots. Yes, Mirage knew alienation – self-imposed alienation at the time, but the feelings were the same.

Low mutterings caught the attention of his highly-attuned aural sensors. The Autobot warrior-spy stood still, his finger pressed lightly on the trigger of his invisible rifle. A band of six male youths were skulking through the shadows, their bodies covered from head to toe in black. Mirage repressed a chuckle at their naiveté, but continued to track their progress. Two of the group were swinging large buckets, the rest were holding cans of spray paint.

Invisible lips pressed together as Mirage's highly-trained cortex considered their intentions. He was due back at the Ark for his report by now; if not, either Red Alert or Prowl would be beeping him and demanding – either in low tones or highly exasperated – an explanation for his tardiness.

The humans paced quickly by the cloaked Autobot, none of the band sensing his presence like the female had. That little talent, in of itself, concerned him – but that was for another day. Mirage watched them pass, finger tapping his chin, wondering if he should follow. He wasn't completely sold on the idea that Autobots should also act as a secondary form of police when there were so many out and about. – Usually.

The youths ducked into the tree line, bobbing and weaving in insane patterns that almost made Mirage laugh aloud. _Amateurs_.

He was about to continue on his way when the group made a sudden turn for the street he's just left – Alina's street. With a mild curse, Mirage finally deduced their intentions. Slinging his rifle into its customary position on his back, the white and blue spy padded after them.

The darkness and the relative quiet of the neighborhood gave the delinquents courage. They whispered loudly to themselves, pausing now and then in the shadows of garages, car ports and porches, outlining a little more of their plan each time. Stalking them, lightly as a feather in the wind, Mirage caught more than enough of their objective than he wanted to know: these boys, it seemed, had slathered orange paint on Alina's house several days before. Now that it was clean again, they found compelled by some strange civic duty to make sure the neighborhood knew who the traitor to humanity was. For, in the buckets and cans were several gallons of orange paint. Mirage shook his head; orange – the color of the Ark. How droll; why didn't they just paint the Autobot symbol on her garage door? That would have been easier to discern. Apparently, he decided, stupidity ran rampant in young male humans – Chip notwithstanding.

Two of the boys were shaking their cans of paint, the little balls within causing quite a disturbance. One of the boys, who was the largest and, it seemed, the ringleader, snapped several epithets and grabbed the cans from them, delegating the paint buckets instead.

Not wanting to end up streaked in orange, Mirage padded around to the left, standing next to Alina's car as the gang crawled up her driveway.

"Okay," the lead boy instructed, "Joey, you get her car; Ralph, you and Toby will hit her porch. Don't leave anything uncovered. We'll work around to the back and meet up at the front. The rest of you can hit her lawn. Got it?"

"Right on, Tanner," one of the youths replied eagerly, shaking out a large roller brush.

Mirage waited patiently until every one of the boys had taken a position before reaching down and over Alina's car to tap the one named Joey. "I wouldn't touch that if I were you," he whispered at his most low and urbane.

With a start, the boy looked up – and up, into the materializing face of the Autobot spy. Mirage bent at the waist, slowly sliding his rifle from behind his back, letting the lights from the sidewalk wink over its sleek structure. "You know what?" the spy continued, almost conspiratorially as a small, dark patch began to form at the boy's lower torso. "I think what you're doing is wrong. Now, you wouldn't want me to make you disappear, would you?"

The patch on Joey's pants only grew larger, and something began to trickle out of the black cuff. "T-t-tann-er!" he yelped, backing away and tripping over his own wild feet.

The larger delinquent paused in painting a large swatch of orange on Alina's front door. "What –AGGGGGGGHHH!"

Lights began to snap on with alacrity just asTanner hit a second, high-pitched wail. Mirage only had to bend a little further and bring his rifle a little closer to the boy for him to freak out completely. Tanner ran like his pants were being seered by Decepticon lasers, leaving his compatriots to drop their defacing gear and high-tail it out of there on their own.

Mirage slid his rifle back and allowed himself a little laugh at their expense. Neighbors were streaming out of their homes, walking around in confusion – only to see the outline of an Autobot standing by a car across the street. Some ran back inside, no doubt to call the authorities.

Something soft touched his lower leg; Mirage started to lift his appendage in order to shake off the unwelcome human contact when he realized who stood next to him. Clutching her purple robe tight around her neck, Alina quickly jerked her hand back.

"Thank you," she whispered, watching with wide blue eyes as her neighbors swayed on the fringes. Someone was holding a primative rifle, dangling loosely by his side. Mirage's keen optic caught sight of it, though it was hidden in the shadow of the man's loose, striped pants. This could get nasty very quickly, he decided, wondering if he should have materialized at all. He could very easily vanish, but not with the girl clinging to his side in terror.

_Well, Raj, look at the slag that you've gotten yourself into,_ he thought wryly, trying to formulate an escape plan. "Stay by my side," he muttered, intended for her ears alone.

"And do what?" she asked, moving aside as he began to sink to the ground in what he hoped was a non-threatening posture.

"Keep still," he replied in answer to her hushed query, drawing one blocky arm around her shoulders. He flattened his other hand on the ground, keeping the butt-end of his rifle visible over his shoulder.

"Don't you think you creatures have disrupted our lives enough?" a man shouted from the opposite side.

"Yes, and I'm sure you would have stopped those delinquents from giving this lady's home a new paintjob," he retuned casually, optics flickering. _"Mirage to base; answer."_

_"Blaster here, man. What's the ruckus? Our scanners got a contingent of cops headed to the girl's crib."_

_"I got deterred. Some young males decided that they were going to repaint the lady's house –without her permission."_

Prowl's low, crisp and professional voice came over the commlink. _"Engaging the neighborhood wasn't your priority, Mirage," _he chastised. _"What on Cybertron did you _do_?"_

Mirage knew very well that he needn't repeat himself on that account. _"I showed myself and my rifle. And gave a little warning or two."_

The logistician's weathered sigh was palatable over the distance of a few miles. _"Primus, Mirage, of all of us, I would have thought you'd have more sense than to intimidate!"_

_"Oh, I think I'm getting my just deserts right about now, Prowl. I have local authorities and citizens all pointing their guns at my chassis. By the way, I think you'd best get down here before this little lady gets harmed by the bullets bouncing off my chestplate."_

"Miss!" the police were shouting. "Step away from the alien."

"Uhm, I think I'm pretty safe where I am, thank you," she returned from her crouch by Mirage's left leg.

The spy's lip components quirked in a small show of humor. The girl had steel-lined tubing when it came down to it. However, it seemed that he had unwittingly created a standoff, and that would do no good for human-Autobot relations. As he watched, the chief of police lifted his megaphone once more, only to have a subordinate tap him on the shoulder. Brows draw low over his optics, Mirage watched shrewdly as the chief turned around to grab at his two-way. The spy would have listened to the conversation if it were not for the safety of the female at his side.

Whatever discussion was going on continued for several heated minutes until the chief finally tucked the two-way into his pocket. With a wave to his men, he turned around and faced Mirage. "I just got a call from your leader, Autobot. You can go, but the lady remains in her house for the night." He whirled around and began barking intensely at the crowd. Slowly, but surely, they trickled back into their homes, lingering but a moment until the police ushered them inside.

Mirage let a low sigh pass from his ventilators at the verdict.

"You're in trouble, aren't you?" Alina asked quietly, her hand on his knee.

The spy looked around at the parting crowd. "Perhaps," he allowed. "But I wouldn't bother yourself with it. In a round-about way, I did my job." Slowly, fluidly, he got to his feet with nary a hiss of hydraulics.

"Thank you," she repeated, taking one final glance at the dispersing crowd before scurrying inside. Mirage paused, listening for the subtle _click_ of the lock; he watched as a light flickered inside then quickly shut off. Satisfied, the Ligier faded from sight and made his way on four wheels back to base.


	5. One Day in Your Life

**Chapter Five  
**One Day in Your Life

_I watch the heavens and I find a calling  
__Something I can do to change this moment  
__Stay close to me while the sky is falling  
__Don't wanna be left alone, don't wanna be alone  
_Sarah McLachlan, "World on Fire"

"Hello."

The tinny greeting echoed around the interior of the massive plasma cannon that the spy was currently ensconced in. Mirage paused, a dirty rag dangling from his right hand. Slowly, he backed down the long tube, completely disgusted with the state that Prowl had allowed the cannon to degenerate into. Touching ground, he dusted off his hands, irritated about the condition he was in – grit, grime and various pieces of rock dust covered him from helm to toe.

"I'm sorry," Alina continued. "They told me that I only had a few minutes, as you're on punishment detail."

The spy grunted, patting his sleek exterior until clods of sludge slothed off, landing with thick splats at his feet. The girl jumped back with a slight exclamation, trying not to get hit with the debris. Mirage sighed and looked down at her. "I see they finally let you loose from house arrest."

Alina smiled softly. "Self-imposed. I've been job-hunting."

Mirage made a non-committal sound in the back of his vocalizer, gazing at the cannon. He still had a few more feet to go before Prowl would count it spotless.

"I just wanted to let you know that no one's tried to paint my house again – thanks to you." She laughed, her bright blue eyes sparkling for the first time since Mirage had laid optics on her. "I think they're expecting you to pop out at any minute."

Using a clean spot on the rag, Mirage polished off his fingers. "Well, I guess I did my job, then."

The young woman looked down at her feet, idly pushing the rocks around with a toe. "I guess I just needed to tell you that again." She paused, tipping her head to the side and gave a short, wry laugh. "You know, I've been told not to come here – that I'm only hurting myself by keeping up relations with your kind. Maybe … maybe a few weeks ago, I would have considered myself crazy, but not now. I guess staring at all those 'wanted' pages left me with a different frame of mind."

Mirage looked down at her, thoroughly confused. His lip components twisted ironically to the side. "Pardon?"

Alina flushed and rubbed the back of her head in embarrassment. "Sorry … I guess I'm not afraid of what's to come anymore."

The spy nodded assent. "Well, that's good to hear." The whir of the external cameras caught his attention and he knew that Red Alert was having the time of his life back there, watching the elite spy doing drudge-duty. Not only that, but the security director wouldn't hesitate to blare commands over the small speaker attached under the lens. With an elegant shrug of his shoulders, Mirage bent his head and began to scramble inside the cannon.

He wasn't in there a nanoclick when someone tugged on his foot. "What?"

"Hey, Raj, Prime said you can come out now."

Mirage sighed. He didn't want preferential treatment; let him finish out his tenure. "No, that's okay, Hound. I'll finish."

"Don't make me haul you out, Mirage."

Deep inside the cannon, Mirage's optic shutters blinked. He worked his way backwards with as much finesse as he could muster and dropped out the bottom, only to face Optimus Prime. The tall leader of the Autobots peered inside the cannon. "Well, I think that's clean enough."

Mirage blinked again. "Pardon, Chief, but what are you talking about? I have more to go."

Optimus tucked his hands behind his broad back. "You've already done the other four, Mirage, and your friend did come a long way to see you."

_Friend?_ The word bounced around Mirage's cortex without touching off anything remotely connecting. It merely pinged off of Hound before coming out the other side of his aural system. "I'd rather finish, Chief."

Optimus crossed his arms in front of his boxy red chest and looked down at Mirage from his statuesque height. There was a gleam in his cool, collected optics that didn't brook any argument. The Ligier sighed and tossed the rag back inside the cannon. Of all of his comrades, he thought Prime would understand his position on associating with humans. He wasn't here to make friends; he was here by pure, fatal chance. If there was a job to be done, he'd do it, if only to see his triumphant return to a free and golden Cybertron – the one that haunted his recharging nights and danced in the corners of his optics. What time did he, Mirage of the Towers, have to make friends?

Optimus tapped his fingers on his upper arm. "You are very complex, Mirage. From what Alina told me, you protected her quite 'valiantly', to use her terminology. And yet, you want to clean out plasma cannons?"

Trust Optimus to back him into a corner using his honor as leverage. "I'll shower first, Chief," he told the Autobot commander at last, and was rewarded with a pleased nod. Optimus turned with Hound and walked back down the path to the Ark proper, leaving the spy to lean against the cannon's lip, discomforted.

* * *

The week following the sabotaged paint attack had left Alina with more questions than answers. She'd spent much of that time perusing the "want" ads, looking for compatible positions somewhere outside of Portland. She'd tried several in Portland's sister city of Central City, but in that pro-Autobot metropolis, all her queries were met with plaintive pleas to meet the Transformers. It was almost as bad as going grocery shopping and being mobbed by youngsters who wanted to meet Optimus Prime – whom she'd never laid eyes on. The hot-cold aspect of humanity was never more apparent to her than during these trying times. 

But, what had made her come here again? A few conversations with her brother, to be sure; her parents were more hesitant on the matter, not wanting their only daughter to become a societal pariah. She could have shunned the Witwickys and their strange companions for the rest of her life, but that was not the type of person she was. Indeed, the more press-time the Autobot-Decepticon war got, the more wild the rumors surrounding their existence became. What irked her the most was the write-up of the incident at her house. What being bent on peace would point a gun at a _child_? And so, among other less-tangible pros, she decided to flaunt the police warnings and drive up to Mt. St. Hillary on her own.

When she had finally met Optimus Prime, she was amazed at the aura of serenity, of quiet command, that positively oozed from his metallic exterior. It left her wondering just how humanity could perceive these amazing _people_ as mere robots. She felt like standing at attention just by coming upon him seated at his desk. And when he stood up to escort her to the plasma cannon field, she felt like a mouse walking beside a Shire, a slip of fear touching her soul at the prospect of being casually stomped flat by those massive feet. But, like the others, Optimus Prime knew where his feet were going and he kept a respectful distance all the way up the cliff-face.

Now, here she was, in a large room, seated on a table and chatting amicably with three Autobots who happened to be off-duty: the affable Bumblebee; a solemn, white space-faring jet named Skyfire; and a chatty, soft-spoken grey car called Bluestreak. Spike sat perched on the other end, explaining the various furnishings. The rec room (as it was called) had several squared-off couches, a large television, and a few tables and chairs for private games. What Bumblebee described as an "Energon dispenser" sat in the back.

And it was towards this little cappuccino maker that the spy Mirage walked. He passed the group without a word, his plating gleaming with a recent wash and a little more than a dab of wax – or whatever it was they used. Alina was amazed that even around his fellow soldiers, he kept his head averted and walked without a sound. She turned from the conversation to watch as he drew a shimmering pink liquid – fuel? – from the dispenser and swirled it around in a tall, thin glass before sipping. He tilted his head towards her and lifted the glass casually before downing the contents in one easy gulp.

"All done, Raj?" Bluestreak asked, noting that their guest's attention had wandered elsewhere. "I thought you had all the cannons to do."

"Prime concluded that they were clean enough," he replied in that fine, cultured tone that Alina had come to associate exclusively with Mirage.

"C'mon over," Bumblebee urged the spy. "Alina was telling us about how you sent some kids packing."

Spike nodded eagerly. "Wish I coulda been there."

Mirage set his glass aside and folded his arms. "Nothing spectacular," he allowed. "You show anyone the tip of a rifle and they drop their things pretty quickly."

Rifle? Alina felt her eyebrows rise in surprise at the spy's admission. "You mean – you _did_ hold those kids up?" disbelief naked in her voice. And here she was, about to defend his actions!

Bumblebee shook his horned head. "Awr, Mirage … didja have to? I mean, people around Portland hate us enough for blocking traffic."

Mirage gave an eloquent, unapologetic shrug. "I would have rather not been sprayed orange," he conceded, tapping his fingers on his upper arms.

Alina turned around, heavily disappointed. His whole demeanor spoke of old, country values – almost English in his carriage and attitude. Stiff, but proper. And what English country gentleman would go around putting his pistol in the faces of minors?

Skyfire made a sound deep within his chest that sounded like a plane starting up. He shook his head and turned around. "Eh, I'll see you around, guys. I've got patrol." Bluestreak, Bumblebee and Spike all murmured good-byes, before they, too, started to break apart.

"Wanna come to the bridge, Alina?" Spike offered, using Bumblebee's shoulder as a means to get off the table.

"No, no thank you," she declined, swinging her feet. "Too much walking." And grinned to convince them of her humor.

Spike took it in stride. "Oh, okay. We'll be back later. Unless Mirage wants to take you around." And he peered around the table to where the spy still stood, his arms crossed, chin tucked against his chest. All he received was a measured stare from the Ligier. "Fine …" Bumblebee put his arm around Spike's shoulder and they left, leaving Alina alone with the spy.

She turned around on the table, folded her legs, and rested her chin on the palm of her hand.

"I have no apology to make for your assumptions," he said at last, pushing off from the counter and walking over to the table; he pulled out a chair and sat down, folding his hands on the burnt orange top.

"Mmm," she conceded, staring up at him. Well, he was right – it was foolish of her to make assumptions. He was a warrior, after all – how else would he know how to diffuse a situation? "I'm sorry."

"I seem to hear you saying that a lot," he returned drolly.

She shrugged. "No less sincere than the last time."

Mirage shifted, lifting his shoulders. "So, you say that you've had no other unwanted activity?"

Alina nodded, watching the subtle movements of his face. What, exactly, was it made of? Transformers, it seemed, had flawless freedom of expression, though it appeared their whole body was made of metal. Perhaps, she thought, it was a different kind, something malleable. "No, not since you stopped the kids."

Across the table, the Ligier merely nodded. Alina groped for another conversation topic, but she seemed a little lost for thought. It didn't help that she had sought out the one who appeared to be the least conversational of all the Autobots. "Still," she continued, grabbing at mental straws, "it hasn't helped my image." And she looked up into his pale blue face, lips twisting in a wry smile. "I've tried applying for jobs in Central City, but it seems all they want to do is talk about you."

"Well, they would, after we saved their skidplates from the Decepticons."

Alina rocked back on her rear end, splaying her hands out behind her. "Oh, I remember that – last year. You got sent into space after a crazy trial."

A strange look came over Mirage's face. "I thought we were going _home_ … turned out that we were headed on a one-way trip into your sun."

Homesick? Well, she decided, if they could exhibit such personality, they could certainly be capable of feeling other deeper, more human, emotions. Alina drew her legs together and folded her arms over her knees, resting her chin on top. "You miss your home, don't you?"

A curious leap of the brow ridge was her only indication that her query had hit something very deep within the spy. He paused before replying in a low tone, "More than you could possibly imagine. More than anyone else understands."

That admission surprised her. "What do you mean? Surely everyone else here wants to go home …"

Mirage's lower jaw worked from side to side, as if he were engaged in a mental battle of how much to tell her. "There's no point in me speaking of it again," he said at last. "I've been told numerous times to keep my keening to myself."

Alina frowned. That didn't seem right. Of course, she wasn't privy to the reasons behind the others' choices, so she shouldn't make any snap judgments. Still, there was a look in Mirage's optics and in the way the ridge above them slanted at a forlorn angle, that she felt compelled to say, "Why don't you tell me?"

He looked up. "That is generous of you … but no."

"Why?" she pressed, flicking her hair back from her eyes. "You don't think I can understand?"

Mirage sat back, keeping his hands on the table as if for support. "No, not particularly. Human and Cybertronian lives are different."

Alina gave a wry toss of her head. "Try me. Give me one day out of your busy life. I promise I won't tell you to shut up." What surprised her the most was not his reply, but her own willingness to hear the homesick moanings of a robotic alien. But there had been sadness, and a longing, and she felt that he had tried so many times to convey that to his comrades, but had been shot down just as fast.

Mirage studied her long and hard, taking in her humanity and tossing that around in whatever passed for a brain. Finally, he reached into his … side … and pulled out a small globe. It wasn't that large – compared to him, that is. But as he placed it before her, she saw that it was about half her height. "Watch," was all he said, and set the little disk down, pressing a button on the side. From the center of the bronze plate came a golden light, which quickly expanded into the image of a golden planet, slowly turning in the blackness of space. Amazed, Alina slid forward, watching the metallic planet spin.

"This is your home …"

He nodded. "Cybertron," he affirmed. One slim black finger pointed to the top of the planet. "This is Iacon, the capital of Autobot occupation. It used to be the capital of all Cybertron before the wars. I lived here, The Towers." He pulled his finger back so that Alina could see a small patch of gleaming, glittering white and silver, striated blue and green amidst the uniform gold of the rest of the planet. To her eyes, they seemed perfect – towering minarets and sweeping arches. What it must have been like to live there!

"What did you do – before the war?" she whispered, trying not to break the spell of the hologram.

"Hunted turbofoxes, parties. Spent credits on art work and company."

_That's all?_ she thought in confusion. _You were a_ rich boy Apparently, he felt no shame in telling her, a female, about his whoring … or whatever one would term relations between mechanoids. Now, that was something she did _not_ want to get into. "Seems rather … limited," she said at last.

"That's what I've been told."

Alina finally managed to tear herself away from the spell of the planet Cybertron. Mirage took that as a signal and reached forward with those long fingers to grab the hologram and tuck it safely back into that … netherwhere.

"Do you like _anything_ about Earth?" she asked, rocking backwards, letting her legs stretch out.

"Not particularly. I don't like being here, but I tolerate it. I gave Optimus my pledge of loyalty when Cybertron began to fall into war, and I will honor that, despite my personal preferences."

That wasn't an answer, she decided, more like him trying to prove something to her. "Oh, come on, there must be one thing."

Reflectively, the white and blue spy began tapping his fingers on the tabletop. "I'll get back to you on that one," he finally replied.

"Promise?"

Mirage turned his head slightly, peering down at her with one sky blue optic. Alina merely smiled her sweetest – well, it used to work on her exes … Mirage's fingers rapped out a complex beat before he answered, "When I find something, yes."

She grinned, finally getting through that tough, high-priced armor. "Now, tell me more about Cybertron."

"Are you serious?" Apparently, it never occurred to him that anyone would want his version of their homeworld.

"You don't see anyone holding a gun to my head, do you?"

The spy visibly winced. "Touche," he returned, and with that, came a small sliver of a smile. Alina grinned back, liking this sudden shift in his facial planes. When not locked in a downward slope, Mirage's light blue face had a soft, almost innocent look about it. As if there was a little robot-boy deep down inside, yearning for a time and age that had been swept away by the greed of a tyrant.

"Well," he began, rocking back in his chair. Then, in one sudden motion, he tipped back and threw his feet up on the table, hooking one foot over the other. "I'll tell you about the Towers …"

* * *

Invisible, Mirage watched the silver car until it was too far gone, even for his superior optics. The spy was leaning up against the rocky outcropping just outside the Ark's main entrance, his ankles crossed, one hand tapping his chin reflectively. While Alina seemed sincere, Mirage wasn't inclined to trust anyone on appearances alone. He was Tower-born and raised, and he knew the veils people wore when they were hunting for something you had. He'd played that game many times before, and on occasion, had been played. However, there was a fact he couldn't escape, no matter how hard he tried – she had gotten him to open up, if but a little, and sat there for clicks listening to his descriptions of Cybertron. She was like Hound in that respect – except that these days, all Hound wanted to do was compare Earth and Cybertron. 

As if there was such a comparison to be made!

Mirage sighed, his ventilators rattling forlornly. Letting his hands drop, he pressed his back up against the rocky face of the old volcano. If but for a moment in time, that small female had made him _forget_ … forget the sickness that drove him to complete his missions – instead of duty and pride, as it was in his fellow soldiers.

He still didn't trust her, but perhaps … there was time enough to allow such a thing to occur.


	6. A Girl and Her Robot are not Soon Parted

**Chapter Six  
**A Girl and Her Robot are not Soon Parted

_People create history / _**hito wa ai wo tsumugi nagara  
**_while weaving love. / _**rekishi wo tsukuru  
**_Even knowing I'll never be a goddess / _**megami nante narenai mama  
**_or anything like that, I live on. / _**watashi wa ikiru  
**Takahashi Youko, "Cruel Angel's Thesis/Zankoku na Tenshi no TE-ZE" Neon Genesis Evangelion

Job-hunting was sorely trying. Alina pushed aside the glass door and stepped out into her back yard. The mid-April sunshine was comforting, much better than the cool winds of March. Things were looking up, she decided. Tomorrow, she had an interview at a mid-sized publishing company in Central City. It wasn't her first choice, but this was the first business that hadn't put two and two together when she gave her name – or, at least, was more professional than to pry. Admittedly, she was more than a little nervous about it; they would ask about her previous job, and she would have to let them know about the circumstances of her being "laid off". That's right … she wasn't technically fired. Apparently, Mr. Harper still had some heart when it came down to those matters.

On a whim, she walked over to the fence and stood on tip-toe, peering over the weathered brown slates. The Walters' had done a fine job this year – an array of ornamental pots, little gnomes and freshly tilled top soil mixed with mulch bespoke a banner garden. Too bad she wouldn't be invited over this year to walk amidst the flowers. With a soft sigh, she dropped back to the ground and moved over to the small lawn chair that was sitting on her poured cement porch. Grabbing the chair, she dragged it onto the grass and flopped down in it, pulling a thin volume from her back pocket.

"That is a rather interesting reading posture," a soft voice commented from the ether. Once more, Alina jumped, biting her tongue in surprise. Wincing, she uncurled her legs from underneath her bottom and swung them down. Before her, the grass once again flattened into the shape of two feet; quickly, it compressed completely as Mirage sat down.

Rolling her tongue around in her mouth, checking for blood, Alina was slow to reply. "Phuh-hahs," she mumbled around her tender tongue. Finding only a sore muscle, she curled her legs, staring up into what she hoped was the spy's invisible face. "What brings you here?"

Without a whisper of air, a glowing orange box etched itself into the space before her, and in that box, Mirage appeared. He had one leg cocked, elbow resting on his kneecap. Curiously, the cannon that sat on his shoulder was absent. "Hound wanted to take a nature walk, so I let him and wandered over here."

Despite herself, Alina chuckled. "That's cruel."

Mirage frowned, but it was without malice. "What's cruel is trying to drag me through miles of forest. If you haven't realized it by now, dirt and I don't get along very well."

Still giggling, Alina tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Really, tell me, what brings you down?"

Mirage looked around and proceeded to stretch his legs out. "Maybe I wished for intelligent conversation." His brow ridge drew down and he seemed to be looking at the book that had flopped to the ground by her feet. "What might you be reading?"

Stooping, Alina scooped it up. "Oh, this? It's _Paradise Lost_, by John Milton."

Obviously, the poet's name meant nothing to him, so she cracked the text open, cleared her throat and read the opening line:

_Of Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit  
__Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal taste  
__Brought Death into the World, and all our woe,  
__With loss of Eden, till one greater Man  
__Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat,  
__Sing Heav'nly Muse, that on the secret top  
__Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire  
__That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed,  
__In the Beginning how the Heav'ns and Earth  
__Rose out of Chaos._

There was a curious look on the spy's face as she closed the book and stuffed it between her and the lawn chair. "That is a rather interesting piece of literature," he said at last. "I would like to borrow it sometime, if that is all right with you."

A request? That was something new to her. Still, she smiled. "Of course." And that seemed the end of that thread of conversation. Apparently, Mirage was not the type to start something unless it had to do with Cybertron. "Oh, I don't know if you heard, but it seems as if the police are cutting down on warning folk about heading up to the Ark … "

The Ligier was about to reply when a head poked over the fence. "Ms. … Michaels? Who are you talking t—SWEET JESUS CHRIST!"

The world turned upside down as Alina fell backwards in her chair with a solid _oof_! Rolling her eyes to the left, she caught sight of Mr. Walters' weathered brow and nose poking between the regenerating ivy. He was staring with an apoplectic expression at Mirage; the spy effected a casual, unassuming pose, which had him curling his legs together and dropping his hands in front of his knees like a prisoner of war. "Hello," he greeted genially, tipping his head.

However, that spark of kindness did not win over Mr. Walters. Gripping the fence like it was his only grasp on reality, the poor man began shouting. "Marge! Marge! Call the cops! That crazy Autobot is back! Oh, shit!"

"I can find some deeply afflicted Autobots if that's what you're after," Mirage told him pointedly. "I'm sure Gears or Brawn would love to have a garden party with you …"

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" continued Mr. Walters.

Groaning, Alina rolled free of the plastic chair, smudging her hands and knees with newly-warmed dirt.

"You need to build a bigger fence," Mirage remarked casually with a small laugh, getting to his feet. And then he was stepping up to her, both feet planted firmly on either side of her body. "Sir, I'm not going to do anything to –"

And then there was Mrs. Walters, visible only though a hole in the fence, tugging very hard on her husband's shirt. With a sigh, Mirage bent down and lowered his slim black hand. "Climb up," he instructed. "It looks like I've inadvertently caused wide-spread panic again …"

Alina stared at his wide palm as if it were a whole different entity. _Oh, well, what the hell_ … And practically skipped into the crook of the spy's arm. Vertigo assailed her briefly as she was lifted into the air and settled with fair gentleness upon the Autobot's smooth shoulder. She perched by his head, trying to find some purchase on this shiny metal that made up his body; finally, as he began to shift, she dug her heels into his collar and wrapped her fingers around his helm, ignoring his grunts.

Mirage took a step, then another … and began to fade. She felt a subtle hum, felt vibrations underneath her rear as something within him revved up for the change. And to her initial horror, she, too, began to fade.

"I suppose they'll try and charge you with kidnapping now," she told him as he crossed over the fence and moved with surprising agility across the front lawn.

"I don't doubt it."

"And more punishment detail?"

"More than likely."

Invisible, she clung to the side of his head, a strange sense of adventure and living on the edge coming to mind. "But, isn't this fun?"

There was a noticeable pause as Mirage's cloaked body slipped onto the sidewalk and through back yards without a second thought. "You know … it is." And he sounded distinctly surprised by the admission.

"At least we can get into trouble together," she told him with a low laugh. "I think I've broken more than a fair share of laws on my own. You've been a bad influence on me."

A hearty laugh, like nothing she'd heard from the spy before bubbled up from inside his sleek chest cavity; it vibrated along her bottom and into her head. "Me? Vise versa, I believe."

She giggled and leaned up against his head, aware that there was a hand ready to catch her if she fell. It really was the most fun she'd had in a very long time –a welcome relief from the madness and heartache from being fired and subsequently turned into newspaper fodder.

Around them, dusk began to fall. The sky turned a lovely blue-purple and the moon, a sleek sliver among the winking stars, flowed into view from behind a slip of a cloud. If it weren't for the subtle, rocking motion of Mirage's walking, she could have been alone, on her back in a field, watching the stars come out. It was so peaceful and serene.

Really, he wasn't so bad, she thought. Sure, he might sound a little haughty at times and presumptuous, but there was that need to be heard and understood. She supposed it came from being so far from home, and from fighting a millennia-old war.

Mirage's long strides carried them across the neighborhood and to a small park. And it was here in the quiet dusk that he uncloaked, bending down to help her off his shoulder. Once she was secure on the ground, he sat, crossing his long legs in front of him, chin lifted to the stars. Reflectively, Alina took up a patch of grass, folding her arms over her knees, viewing the stars from under a thin veil of hair.

_How strange my life has become,_ she thought. _I used to think I had it all, and then it was all taken away from me. I'm not struggling; I have enough money to carry me through until I get another job. I should, by all accounts, be angry at the Autobots, but they're not the cause of the problem. Pure human bigotry; I just happened to be employed by the mother of all bigots._ Slowly, she turned her head and looked up at Mirage. The spy was staring straight ahead and up into the heavens, his lips pursed in a thin line. What a pair they must have made! Tall, lean robot and short, dark-haired woman sitting side by side, each lost in their own thoughts.

It was then that Mirage pulled back into himself and fixed his sky blue optics on her. "Would you like me to show you where Cybertron lies?"

"Yes."

He uncurled one hand and brought it around her shoulders hesitantly, as if such contact were foreign. "See that line of three stars?" he asked, pointing out the familiar outline of Orion; Alina nodded. "If you follow diagonally to the right, there will be a faint star. Behind that and a few million of your miles beyond is Cybertron."

Myopically, she tried to see what it was the spy was pointing out – but her eyes were just no match for his. All she could recall was the small, spinning hologram. Quietly, Alina spoke: "I remember the day Megatron tried to bring Cybertron into the solar system. I remember the terror and the destruction." She turned and looked up at him. "Your home was so close … And you didn't go back?"

Slowly, Mirage's fingers uncurled from her shoulder and he withdrew into himself. "No, I didn't. I've had … many opportunities through the various forays we've made to Cybertron. And yet I return here." He was quiet for a few moments and then tilted his chin down to her. His soft blue face was – for lack of a better term – lined with sadness. "I suppose you could say that my loyalty to Optimus Prime overrides even my greatest desire for home."

"Or, perhaps, you want it to be free before you go there."

"That, too. Cybertron is no place for me the way it currently is. There is nothing there that reminds me of its former glory. The Towers are long gone, obliterated."

Empathy for his situation practically gnawed on her soul. Standing, she sidestepped and placed her hand on his blue hip. "What about your family?"

Nothing could prepare her for the jump in the spy's brow ridges. His face shifted and then quickly resolved itself back into its sad façade. "Cybertronians are not organics," he said at last. "There are no families, and if there _were_, they would not be anything like yours."

Surprised, she drew her hand back. "Sorry for asking …" she muttered, turning away.

Silence stretched around them, punctuated only by the cries of crickets and the occasional roar of a nighttime plane. Cars were few and very far between, and even if they did pass by, the shadows cast by the clouds and the trees easily hid Mirage's sleek bulk. Eventually, Alina thought it best to sit down. Whenever he was ready, she'd ask for a lift home – and not by his vehicle mode. She'd seen that a few times and there was no way you'd get her to strap into an F1.

After what seemed to be a long time, Mirage shifted. "Listen."

"What?" she retorted, still a little stung from his earlier shoot-down.

"No … _listen_. What do you hear?"

There was something in his tone, and in the urgency of the whisper that caused her to shut up completely. Surely, her ears were a poor comparison to his advanced technology, but she gave it a go. Scrunching up her nose, she listened … Crickets – block that out … the plane above … a slight – _click_? Click, click?

_Boom_? A trickle of fear raced up her spine. A bomb?

When she looked to Mirage for confirmation, he was _gone_. At least she knew that he didn't _poof_ because he was scared. Still … where _was_ he?

Her answer was not long in coming. A moment later, a shout burst from the bushes to their right; cursing interspersed with nonsensical yelling. Despite the apparent seriousness of the situation, not to mention the possible danger, she scuttled to her feet and ran to the source.

"Mirage!"

And there the spy was, fully visible and dangling a stocky man by the back of his plaid shirt. "Little human," the Ligier began in a deathly cold voice, "do you know what you're doing?"

"Put me down, you metal sonofabitch!" the man screamed, trying in vain to kick at the spy's torso with sneaker-clad feet.

On the ground, not far from the bushes, something shiny gleamed. Alina bent down and pulled a Polaroid camera from the bed of leaves upon which it rested. Scattered all around were pictures in various states of development: all showing her and Mirage. There – the spy's hand on her shoulders; here – her hand on his hip. A feeling of perversion replaced the fear; hands trembling, Alina looked up at the man, no longer feeling any sort of pity for his predicament.

"What do you do with a person who spies on a spy, Mirage?" she asked quietly, flipping her hands over to showcase the photos.

There was a porcine squeal as Mirage swung about to look at the pictures. His lips went flatter than she'd ever seen before. "Well, I know that Decepticons will take out your fuel lines, one by one, until you choke on your own refuse, unable to refine what is left."

"Give me a break!" the paparazzo screamed, twisting on a scrap of cloth from the spy's slim thumb and forefinger. "Those are worth major bucks! You two are prime targets – better than that Carlton-Ritz chick last year!"

"Is that so?" Mirage mused. "I shall have to tell Powerglide about that. He wasn't too happy when he found out."

Eyes wide in the face of his slip of the tongue, the paparazzo tried changing tactics. "Hey, man – er, robot – Autobot – buddy! Let me go! I can turn this into a great PR story for your buddies. I mean, this is all nice and sweet, yanno? Perfect to combat that firm's campaign against you … Awr … c'mon … let me doooooooooooooown –"

Negligently, Mirage tossed the man into the bushes – lightly. And then he took one step towards the camera – and reamed it into the dirt. There was a slight pop and a bit of smoke as the Polaroid was crushed by his massive foot.

Alina backed up into the relative safety of the spy's leg as the paparazzo scrambled from the bramble. He took one look at the ruins of his camera, then swung a murderous gaze at her before turning his beady little eyes on Mirage. To his credit, Mirage merely crossed his arms and stared back, his presence enough of a threat. Spitting in their general direction, he scraped together what remained of his dignity – and shirt – and ran downhill, stumbling and cursing all the while.

Alina watched him go, then pushed through the brush, looking for any photos that might have been left behind. She found a few, stacked into a neat pile and already labeled with the time, date and place. These she stuffed into her back pocket before twisting about and turning to Mirage for what to do next.

"I'm going to bring you home now," he said softly, scanning the area. Alina merely nodded, knowing that he was right.

-----------------------------

Things didn't get any worse after the fiasco with her neighbors and the incident with the paparazzo. However, as the Decepticon-Autobot war progressed, neither did her image improve with her neighbors. Alina's parents remained wary, stopping short of condemning her choice to keep in contact with the Autobots; Richard, though warmly receiving at first, seemed to have some sort of doubt. The only thing that was good about the passage of time was the fact that the publishing firm, despite knowing her illustrious background, elected to hire her as a junior editor.

Despite her schedule, she still managed to find time to trek up to the Ark (when it wasn't in lockdown) and see the Witwickys. And Mirage.

Though he was reluctant to bear his "spark" (as they called a soul) at first, gradually, he began to open up; more and more, he engaged her in conversations that did not involve Cybertron. Seated on a rocky outcropping or in a field, they discussed politics, religion, humanity versus Cybertronians, and _Paradise Lost_. Sometimes Hound would join them, and Mirage would smile and nod when the topics turned to Earth. And it didn't seem as forced as it used to be, that much Hound would tell her in his presence.

Out of Mirage's acute hearing range, usually when the spy was out and about on a mission, Hound would confide that there was something different about him. Everyone was remarking on it.

"You don't think it's just me, do you?" she asked on one occasion, swinging her legs off of rec room table in the mid-afternoon. Hound sat across from her, idly sipping from his Energon mug.

"That's hard to say. Mirage can be fun, but he can also be really aloof. I don't think I've ever seen him with a smile on his face for such a long time." Hound pushed his mug around with a pinky. "You two talk a lot, a lot more than I expect from him. What do you talk about, if I might ask?"

She shrugged. "All different kinds of topics – religion, politics, life, Cybertron …"

Hound's brow ridge went up into his green helm. "That might be it," he mused softly. "No one really wants to talk about home these days."

"So he told me."

"Well," the green Jeep decided, "whatever it is, I'm glad to see this side of him."

Alina rested her chin on her fist, thoughtful. "Me, too," she said after a while, smiling softly. "I think what he really needs is to feel understood – not _be_ understood, anyone can claim that, but to sense that the other person is sincere."

Hound could only acquiesce.


	7. This Grey Tragedy – August 8, 1986

**Chapter Seven  
**This Grey Tragedy / August 8, 1986

_So I play, I'll wait  
__'Cause you know that love takes time  
__We came so far  
__Just the beat of a lonely heart  
__And it's mine  
__I don't want to be alone  
_The BeeGees, "Alone"

Alina locked her car and swung her purse over her shoulder. Looking at her watch, she realized that she was early, despite having worked until five-thirty. The building where she began to walk to was Multnomah County Library; though most athenaeums closed around six in the evening, Multnomah was running a special summer reading program that allowed children to stay, supervised, until eight. That was all well and good, because Spike had called her a few days ago, asking if she could meet him there to help with a research project for summer school.

Alina chuckled privately and sat at the top of the steps, scanning the roadway for a red symbol. Running around with Autobots was no excuse for slacking in school. However, part of her wondered why it was _she_ who had received shunning and not Spike – they both spent an inordinate amount of time with the Transformers, and yet … With a quick shake that flopped a lock of onyx over her eyes, Alina forced herself to push past petty jealousies.

"Alina!"

Lifting her chin, Alina heard a car door slam, and saw Spike running towards her, his backpack bouncing over his shoulder. There was a low beep behind him; Alina grinned and waved to Hound. The Jeep tooted back and pulled to the side, where he was apparently going to idle for the time being.

Rising to her feet, Alina checked the boy over. "Do you have everything?" she asked, slipping an arm over his shoulders. At sixteen, Spike was getting well into his growth-spurt and would soon top her own five-foot-six in a few months.

He nodded. "I did some preliminary research with Teletraan-1, and I have some notes for you as well."

"Good, let me see them." She pushed the doors open and they walked inside, passing the juvenile section and heading to the adult research portion. Spike rolled his backpack around to the front and rooted around for a moment before producing a handful of dog-eared, rumpled 3x5-index cards. He blushed at Alina's expression.

"Sorry."

Rolling her eyes good-naturedly, she took them. "Boys!" Flipping the cards around, she slipped into a chair at a long table while Spike took the other. "Let's see … what was the topic again?"

"We have to chose our own 'wonder' and write a five-page paper on why it should be considered amazing."

" 'Wonder'?" she repeated, trying to decipher Spike's thick, slanted handwriting. "Hmm … the Grand Canyon, Yosemite … the Arctic?"

The boy blushed. "I was there once."

Alina blinked furiously, taken aback. "How – when?" she demanded, setting the cards down on the table. How could he possible get up north? Or, more like, who would _let_ him go that far?

Spike's brows furrowed. "Uhm, it was about two years ago. Not long after the Autobots landed." And he launched into a quick explanation of how Skyfire had come to join the team.

_Should have known better_, Alina chided herself. _Have Autobot, will travel_. And she smiled. "Okay. You have a week to complete this, starting today. What we need to do is first narrow down your choices to one and then draft a list of reasons _why_."

Spike grinned and dug a pad and pen from inside the confines of his overstuff backpack, laid them out on the table and grabbed his cards. Alina rested her elbows on the smooth, golden wood and leaned forward, watching.

* * *

In the growing darkness, someone else was watching. Hidden by the bush, concealed by the shadows and darker than pitch, the Decepticon Cassette Ravage crouched. Through slitted bronze optics, the Black Cat observed the Autobot Hound's arrival and subsequent discharge of the human, Spike. For a week and more, Ravage had been tracking the comings and goings of the humans involved with the Autobots. It had been his personal plan to undermine the morale of the opposition by carefully and thoroughly eliminating each of their human allies. A plan that was not approved by glorious Megatron for the simple reason … Megatron did not know. Yet. If all went according to plan, the success would earn the Black Cat the go-ahead, with more mech-power to back him up. 

Ravage did not know the identity of the older female who accompanied Spike into the human archival building, but his curiosity was aroused when he observed her acknowledging Hound. If his faint suspicions were true, then he would be taking out two petrorabbits with one bound. And two kills were better than one.

As he watched, Hound pulled to the side and seemed to shut down. From Ravage's vantage point, there was only one way to get to the library without being spotted. Bunching his hydraulic muscles, the sleek Panther rose from his crouch and began a slow, pacing stalk towards the rear of the building, using the shadows cast by cars as a cover. He stopped completely every few feet, tiny steel ears pricking, rotating, catching any sound that would alert him to discovery.

Nothing, save the occasional human. Baring his fangs, Ravage made a final bound to the rear of the building. Wedging himself into the shadows, the Decepticon Cat angled his proton bombs towards the high window. Soft murmuring discussions wafted through the windows, left open to catch the cooling summer breezes. Ravage's ear flicked, homing in on the one human voice he knew all too well – for too many times, he had been thwarted by that soft, squishy creature. One time too many for the Cat's deep and powerful pride.

A low hiss eased from Ravage's olfactory sensors and quickly developed into a chest rattling growl. Tensing his hindquarters, the Cassetticon circled once, gained momentum – and fired.

* * *

Spike idly flipped through that month's copy of _National Geographic_. Across from him, Alina was perusing the newest _Newsweek_; Spike wasn't so dense as to assume that she would literally walk him through the project, but he'd hoped that she would give him a _little_ more than she currently had. Closing the magazine, he slid his chair back. Alina looked up, arching an eyebrow. "Didn't find anything?" 

He shook his head. "No. I'm going to go pull a few more." He crossed to the magazine rack, put the copy back and bent to grab the remaining volumes that were stacked underneath when the wall behind him erupted into a sheet of fire.

Spike threw himself to the ground as burning timber, molten glass and chunks of brick flew through the air. A foot-long piece of wood with a flamelet attached hit him in the shoulder, setting his clothes alight. With a scream, Spike rolled, oblivious as to the splinters and hot ash he was rubbing into the wound.

The cries and shouts intermingled with the hot, furious air. From the abyss, survivors scrambled to safety, clutching, carrying, dragging anyone they could lay their hands on. Peering through his fingers, Spike tasted the acrid air and coughed, spitting on the scorched floor.

Into this personal hell, a four-footed figure paced. It was about the size of a small pony and built like a cat. The creature stalked the room, impervious to the chaos, fire and smoke.

"Alina!" Spike choked. "ALINA!"

The creature's head whipped around, pinning him with huge, luminescent golden eyes.

_Ravage_.

The long-fanged maw parted in a devil's grin upon spotting Spike. The Decepticon took one small step, and went bowling head over metal scut as Hound's fist crashed through the remaining window. The scout's blow, followed by his upper torso, pushed Ravage across the room; long, deep gouges crossed the old wooden floor as the Panther sought purchase and to ease his skid.

"You can't save them all, Autobot!" rasped harshly from the Black Cat's gaping jaws. He bounded backwards, skipping through the falling timber, making his way straight towards Spike.

Eyes wide in horror, Spike faintly heard Hound calling his name. Pushing himself off the floor, he ran, skirting piles of rubble and slipped behind a bookcase. Tremors from the explosion were already rocking most of the stands; all it took was a shoulder to the back, and the case went tumbling onto the Decepticon Cat. Without a moment to lose, Spike bolted and ran for Hound.

"Alina! Alina!" he cried, throat closing with all the smoke. Hound continued to push himself through the hole, head spinning in all directions, trying to locate the woman. "Hound!"

The Jeep found himself caught on the ledge. Beyond, the toppled bookcase shook, and with a mighty heave, Ravage shouldered the wooden structure to the side. Bunching his hindquarters, he launched himself at the stymied Autobot.

Hound looked up, braced himself on the floor with one hand and drew his gun from subspace with the other. He fired at Ravage at close range, eliciting a combination hiss/roar from the Cat as the laser blast caught him in the chest. The Black Cat hit the opposite wall, creating a large impression of himself; just as quickly, he twisted, landed on his feet, and stood four-square among the death-cry of the burning building.

"No one," Spike heard him growl, half-processed Energon leaking from his jaws, "will leave here and still function!" Tilting his hip, Ravage fired his last proton bomb. It ripped through the ceiling, exploding it into a thousand flaming fragments.

"SPIKE!"

Something huge, solid and decisively heavy threw itself over him. Caught underneath Hound, Spike could hear the crash of timber and the roar of the inferno. Above him, Hound sagged under the weight, bracing himself on his forearms, warding off any chunk of wreckage that threatened to crash into Spike's fragile, organic body.

"Alina!" Spike sobbed, not even having seen the woman after the explosion. Hound's deep-set blue optics focused on him upside-down, slitted through the obvious pain he was experiencing. The Autobot's ventilators shook with exertion, air rattling through his chestplate.

"Hound … Hound to Base …"

Spike groaned as more smoke filtered through the chinks in Hound's defensive wall. Forever, it seemed, was a long time in coming …

* * *

Ravage practically danced out of the library. No one seemed to be paying any attention to the large, black metallic Cat who stood defiantly in the middle of the street, watching with a casual optic as the local authorities worked to pull out any survivors. Those who managed to make it were former wisps of themselves: bloody, burned, broken in some places. Tipping his head to the side, Ravage settled himself into a nice dark corner and smiled. That had to have been the easiest mission; not even the supreme tracker of the Autobots had been able to sniff him out. 

Still, there was the matter of the hole in his chestplate. Thankfully enough, that was one of the places where his armor was the toughest; Hound's aim was askew and didn't burn far enough.

Satisfied, Ravage bent to lick the underside of one steel-tipped paw. He rose, shaking his lighter haunches and bounded off into the increasing darkness, the sounds of Autobot horns, sirens and engines speeding him onward.

* * *

Hot, sulfuric air burned Spike's lungs. It was as if he was going to slowly cook from the inside – and out – trapped under Hound's body. What rumbling there had been had ceased; instead, there was a silence unlike Spike had ever experienced. Deathly … _quiet_. 

_Is this death?_ he wondered, panting on his side. _I'm … too young …_

"BRACE, AUTOBOTS! HEAVE!"

Hound stirred. His optics, the light mere pinpricks, flashed as he, too, heard the call to action. "Stay … close, Spike," he rasped, his own vocalizer clogged with dust, dirt and smoke. "Hound … here. Prime … read … me?"

The Jeep must have set his commlink to broadcast, because Spike heard Optimus' strong, steady voice as clearly as if he was standing next to the boy. _"I read you, Hound. Can you signal?"_

" …. Barely. I can … try." A soft red light began to pulse near the headlights of Hound's chest. Yet, due to the Autobot tracker's loss of power, it quickly extinguished but a moment later. And with that went his commlink. A soft puff of air flowed over Spike. "I'm sorry, Spike," Hound whispered. "I tried."

Spike rolled over, staring at Hound's chestplate, his only illumination coming from the Autobot's fading optics. " … Alina …"

Metal groaned and Spike believed it to be the tracker's keen for the lost woman. But, no … suddenly, the space under Hound seemed less oppressive.

"HOUND!"

Rubble heaved and heavy feet stomped nearby. A large black hand punched through the wreckage, grabbed Hound by the shoulder, and pulled the green Jeep free. Fresh air, sweet and cool, assailed Spike's tortured lungs; light stabbed ruthlessly into his eyes, temporarily blinding him. Orbs danced before the boy's face as he tried in vain to see through slit lids; truly, it was night outside, but the light was coming from the headlights of the Minibots, and of Sunstreaker, who held Hound's servo-weary body in his arms.

Slowly, Spike's tortured vision cleared, and he could make out the form of Optimus Prime, standing with half his body inside the burned out library, gesturing to the Minibots which places to search. In short order, the rest of the world surfaced by way of sounds: the hiss of water on burning timber, the shouts of firefighters, the wail of sirens, and the loud wails of humanity.

"Easy, Spike," someone cautioned, tucking thin metallic hands under the boy's armpits. "Here we go." Exhaustion lolled Spike's head around; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brawn's familiar long, grey face, framed by a patch of yellow. Sunstreaker shifted and began dragging Hound out, not even bothering to see if the tracker could walk under his own hydraulics. The Jeep's feet created two long furrows in the floor, which was already scarred and burnt beyond recognition.

"I said _easy_, Spike," the strong Minibot warned as Spike tried to scramble upright, only to find that his legs didn't want to obey his mind. "I'll play nurse-bot; just don't _move_." In one easy motion, Brawn swept Spike up and cradled him with surprising gentleness against his boxy chestplate.

"But …" he wheezed, his body curling upwards at the shock of a cough. Brawn expertly thumped him on the back with his thumb, dislodging the wad of ash that had stuck in the boy's windpipe. Spike gaped like a fish, aware of the Minibot's forward motion, but little else.

Optimus Prime watched as Brawn carried Spike down and out of the razed structure. Far too large to even attempt a search in the rubble, Optimus had to stand by the point of entry and direct his troops from there. It had been a gamble to send in Sunstreaker, who was easily double the weight of the smallest Minibot; the floor had been torn to shreds long before the upper level had come crashing down. But there was no one else available when the call came, and he had sent Brawn to search the debris for survivors with the rest of his sub-group.

Along the far, skeletal wall, red and grey Windcharger was shifting metal with his magnetic ability while Powerglide rooted around in the remaining timber. There was something about that pile, Optimus observed …

Windcharger lifted his arm at that moment, staring at the slim watch that was attached to his wrist. Turning his head, he looked Optimus directly in the optic, his somber features even more solemn than before. "Prime, we have something …"

"Get Ratchet!" Powerglide hollered, tearing a beam away. Underneath the ruins of a research table was a soft, limp arm, burned at the top and bloody at the fingertips. A clear patch of skin, in the exact shape of the watch, was their only answer. Powerglide shoved more beams away until the shattered table was unearthed. Windcharger dropped his magnetism, letting the watch fall by his feet. He dove in to help the red jet; as Optimus watched with a sinking spark, Windcharger buried his arms up to the elbow joint … and pulled a body free. "_Get Ratchet, slaggit_!" the jet roared, stumbling after Windcharger.

Optimus stared at the mangled body – _Primus_! Someone dug his fingers into the great semi's side and shoved him away from the hole. Ratchet's grey chevron'ed helm ducked into the gap, the whole set of his frame brooking no argument. "Get her to me, now!" the Chief Medical Officer barked in his most endearing berth-side manner.

Windcharger, cradling the broken, battered form of the human female Optimus had once known as Alina, braced one hand on the aperture and leapt to the ground. Blood rolled down Alina's cheeks, out of her ears and matted in her hair. What had once been a long onyx mane was a short, singed puff that smoked at the tips. Dimly, Optimus noted that her chest still moved in ragged, jerky motions. What little he knew of human physiology told him that the chances were strong that she would not survive.

Ratchet pulled his head from the hole, spun around and transformed in the middle of the refuse pile. Immediately, the hatch in the back of the white ambulance popped open and a ramp with a bed attached to it extended. "Get her secure," the medic ordered. Windcharger dropped to one knee, gently depositing the body on the berth. He stepped back as Ratchet began to bring the ramp back inside and was completely off by the time the CMO was ready to close shop.

"Prowl," Optimus called.

Instantly, the logistician was at his side. "Escort Ratchet to the nearest hospital. I don't care how you get there, she needs immediate attention."

Prowl's calm grey face, immobile even in the direst of circumstances, showed a little strain around his thin lip components. "There's no way out, Prime," he told his leader. "I've checked every frequency; the roads are completely closed off."

In a rare show of temper, Optimus' huge blue fists clenched. "Do whatever it takes," he whispered.

But Prowl was undeterred. "I'm serious, Prime. There's no way out but the way we came. We would have to go all the way to the Ark junction and swing a right before we could hit any major medical facility."

"Will someone tell me where the slag I'm supposed to go?" Ratchet demanded, his tail lights flashing impatiently. "Her pulse, as if it wasn't already low, is dropping!"

"Call in Skyfire –" Brawn suggested, but Optimus cut him off with a shake of his head.

"Too far away, even for his jets." The red-white-blue Autobot stared at Ratchet's swinging tail lights … and made up his cortex. "Prowl. Fast escort to the Ark. Ratchet, are you equipped for human surgery?"

"I'll do anything if you let me get on with it!" came the curt exclaimation.

Prowl took one look at Optimus, saw confirmation square in his steely blue optics and transformed with his sirens blaring even as they were barely out of their compartments. As soon as his tires hit scorched grass, the cruiser was off and running, with Ratchet keeping pace.

"Is there anyone else?" Optimus queried of no one in particular. By his side, Windcharger was staring at his bloodied forearms with a peculiar expression on his facial plates.

"No," came his soft reply. "That was the last pile. The human authorities have everyone else."

Prime nodded slowly. "How's Spike, Hound?" he asked, swinging about.

"Faring well enough," Brawn reported, jerking his head in the direction of the parking lot, where Sunstreaker was standing over the green Jeep like a statue, daring anyone to cross him. Spike sat on a verdant patch of grass with Bumblebee next to the Autobot leader, coughing now and then, and if but for a few scrapes and bruises, he was rather uninjured. "Sparkplug's gonna blow a fuse over this …"

The mention of Spike's father set off a warning peal in Optimus' expansive cortex. He turned slowly, scanning his troops for the only Autobot who was not there, and yet _could_ be. "Where's Mirage?"

"I don't deserve anything," whispered a voice from the air. "Everything has to be taken away: by force, by death, by destruction. There is no Primus if a repentant's singular joy must be torn out of his hands – and smeared on the walls in bright red."

"Mirage?" Optimus called, staring into the darkness. No reply came; not that he should expect any.

"Where is that fool going?" Brawn huffed, crossing his arms.

"After Ravage," Hound replied, leaning on Sunstreaker. "I told him who did it. He's gone after him – to avenge Alina."

Optimus' battlemask dipped as if in a frown. He tapped a place on his barrel chest. "Mirage, this is Optimus. Return to base immediately; that is a direct order." A hiss of static met his hailing query. Brow ridge drawn down over his pericing blue optics, Optimus Prime looked around at the remnants of his small party. None of them could track the spy; it was futile to even attempt it. "Autobots, transform and roll out. We head back to base."

_

* * *

Everything lost. Gone, departed. Why did I even believe that I had found some inner peace?_

_Never again. No more. Once is too many._

_I failed you, Alina. I broke your trust – a trust you so willingly gave me, though I was slow to give you mine._

_Friends are for fools; empathic fools. Only fools give part of their sparks away. But not I … not Mirage of the Towers. _

_You shall be avenged, little one. On my honor._

A warm mist parted before the invisible spy as he tracked his elusive quarry. He paused now and then to check the Energon trail; at first, it was formed in tiny pools. Over time and distance, it slowed to a trickle, and then down to a drop. Only millennia of hunting turbofoxes on Iacon's wide plains allowed Mirage to track the Black Cat. He knew how to hunt a wounded shell; Hound, for all his other skills, did not have the stealth, the silent footing, to continue. And he would not have allowed the green tracker to join him – even if he had come out hail and whole.

Millennia of fighting had not prepared him for the bloody, pulpy mess a human body turned into when crushed by falling debris. Especially a human whom Mirage considered his friend and confidant. He had been coming back to the Ark from patrol when he heard Prime's broad call to action. Arriving invisible, Mirage wound his way through the mass of humanity that was either helping the evacuation, or being tended to. He stopped short when Windcharger pulled what remained of Alina from the wreckage. And it was then that something within the Ligier's privilege-hardened spark cracked.

Ravage led the soul-torn spy on a merry dance through field, streets and even a human waste dump. The moon, its bright, cheery face sporting a full figure tonight, lit the way, illuminating the drops of Energon and bits of ash. Silently, deadly and without emotion, Mirage caught up to the Decepticon as he paused on a riverbed, peering into the waters.

Ravage's head came up the instant Mirage decloaked. For a moment, the Cat stood poised on the brink, every servo on edge. Both Mirage and he knew who had the advantage here – with both proton bombs spent, all Ravage had to offer were his teeth and claws. Mirage, on the other hand, had a rifle and cannon.

The Cat laughed when he spied the Autobot's face. "I see I succeeded in killing your little pet, Tower-born. Guard the rest of your friends well –"

A single shot rang in the night. Ravage gave a surprised yelp and fell to the ground, a laser burn in his right shoulder. Faster than even his optics could follow, two pairs of bonds were whipped at him from a chamber under the spy's wrist. The clamps knocked around the Cat's ankle joints with a faint _click_ as the joints tapped each other.

Slowly, Mirage advanced on the downed Decepticon Cassette. From his unguarded position in the wet grass, Ravage still had the audacity to smile. "Kill me, spy? For the honor of your friend? How Decepticon of you!"

Mirage knelt by Ravage's side, sliding his rifle until it snapped into place on his back. Reaching into a compartment at his right ankle, he pulled a thin crystal knife; in the moonlight, it glowed light blue. Staying clear of the Cat's mighty jaws, Mirage leaned as close as he dared. "You killed the wrong human, Primitive," and had the perverse pleasure of seeing Ravage taken aback. Then the Cat's optics narrowed shrewdly.

"I killed many humans tonight."

Mirage brought the blade to the side of Ravage's neck, where the main fuel line pumped beneath the oil-slick metallic skin. "As I said, you killed the wrong human. Spike lives."

Ravage's sensor rolled in the optic closest to the spy. "For only another day. Terminate me if you must, for I can see it is what you want to do."

Mirage brought the blade down on the Cat's hind leg, severing it from the main body. Ravage bucked and snarled; Energon, warm and half-processed, flowed over the Ligier, turning his moon-white thighs pink. "Not tonight, Ravage. Tonight, I shall take all your limbs and scatter them throughout this field. But you will function – and suffer."

_Forgive me, Alina …_

--------------------------------

Wheeljack had enough time to grab Perceptor out of his late-night work and prepare the medbay for their human arrival. "But we do not have the proper medical equipment with which to operate on a human being!" the red scientist protested as he was hauled from his workbench and dragged through the hallways.

"We have enough," the Lancia replied, his earbulbs flashing as they scrambled into position.

Perceptor frowned, but did not stray from the room. "She might expire here; what will we have to say to her family?"

"We tried?" Wheeljack suggested, rummaging around in a set of drawers. With an exclamation of triumph, he held up a small helmet in his rough palm. "I knew it was still in here. Perceptor … grab that tray."

The scientist looked around and was finally pointed to a low tray parked by the main diagnostic console. "Where do you want it?"

Wheeljack lifted his head from where he was furiously jamming wires and soldering lines on the helmet. "By the platform. And throw a scrap sheet over it; she'll fall off the tines."

Not used to being ordered about like a common android, Perceptor nevertheless had not been privy to what Ratchet had told Wheeljack about the girl, other than she was badly injured. He had to do as he'd been told and wait for further instructions. When he'd completed Wheeljack's request, he walked over to where the inventor was squatting, surrounded by a hundred parts and more than enough tubing to stretch from the Ark to Portland. "What _are_ you doing?"

"Remember that incident with Spike and the Frankenstein body?"

Perceptor's smooth brow wrinkled. "No."

"Oh." And Wheeljack did not sound the least bit apologetic. "That was before you came here. Anyway, time's too short to explain, but what I'm doing is altering this helm so that instead of drawing an organic mind and soul into another body, it'll hold it in a spark-like format until we're done." He paused, tilting the sieve-like apparatus from side to side. "At least, I hope that's what it'll do. I started working on this after what happened to Spike, but I got sidetracked. There's a containment unit in the closet over there. We need to hook this up fast."

Lip components slack, Perceptor stared at the Lancia inventor. Wheeljack caught him out of the corner of his optic, and his earbulbs flashed impatiently. "Well, go on!"

Grumpily, Perceptor did as he was bid. The contraption that Wheeljack had spoken of looked like a grey metal discus, with a clear, plastic dome. Inside was a tiny cradle with a small hollow ball sitting in the middle; the ball had several ports, and attached to each port was a thin wire leading into the cradle. Tucking the unit under his arm, Perceptor brought it over to Wheeljack and set it atop the tray.

They had just enough time to wire the helm to the cradle when Prowl and Ratchet burst into the medbay – Prowl running towards them on his own two feet, while the CMO was still in altmode.

"Get her up, now," Ratchet ordered, taking command as he always did. "You," he barked at Prowl, who turned a surprised face to the white ambulance. "Guard the door. No one in, understand. ESPECIALLY if that Tower-bred rich-mech Mirage ever decides on coming back."

Prowl did not protest. He saluted Ratchet and left, closing the doors. Ratchet backed up to the platform and lowered his ramp; the gurney bearing the broken girl crawled out at a snail's pace. He'd managed to get an IV hooked up, but most of her veins had been covered with burnt skin. Her cries, moans and ragged breaths had tormented the Autobot the whole drive. It didn't help the medic's hardened spark to hear her cry out "Mommy" and in the same wispy breath, call for Mirage.

Together, Perceptor and Wheeljack lifted Alina's body onto the table. Ratchet quickly transformed and paced around to where he kept his medical equipment. "Broken metal bodies I can deal with," they heard him mutter. "But innocent little girls? Flesh tears so easily …"

Both of his comrades wanted to remind him that Alina was no girl, but there was no time for chronological corrections.

"Do you have that unit ready?" the CMO demanded, flexing his wrist joints and inserting a thin scapel into the pincher that just replaced his right hand. In the other, suction cups appeared from a compartment under his wrist; without consideration for human modesty, Ratchet peeled the tatted clothes from Alina's body. He placed the cups on strategic points on her skin and turned his head to view her vitals.

Not good. How she had survived this long, Primus only knew.

A low sob caught his audios. Looking down at the girl's savaged face, Ratchet saw a tear, then two, trickle down her ruined cheeks. "D-on't … l-et …" Alina's body shook with a tremor. "… God …"

A claxon began to blare and red lights pulsated in time to the sound. "GET THAT ON HER!" Slaggit, this was it. They were losing her.

Wheeljack had enough time to jam the helm onto Alina's head before her body gave a massive jerk and lay still. Blood and salvia trickled in a slow stream down the corner of her face and her eyes, wide with fear, rolled up into her skull. He threw the switch as the last tick on the pulse meter gave way to flatline.

For a nanoclick, none of the three dared move. They were all watching the unit. Before their optics, something faint, ethereal, emerged from the girl's chest. It pushed upwards, then fell back as if chained. The helm on her head began to light up in various and changing colors; the cradle hummed to life, small buttons surrounding the circumference dancing in time. Then, with a soft, sucking sound, it pulled on the skin surrounding the dead girl's head. The ethereal wisp tipped forlornly towards the commotion – and vanished.

Ratchet, Wheeljack and Perceptor stared at each other, then at the cradel. "Is that … it?" Ratchet asked. Wheeljack's earbulbs blinked a pale shade of yellow.

"We'll see." And he reached over to flip a switch embedded in the cradel's side. The sucking stopped, and Alina's fearful features slacked, the skin sagging as her body slowly cooled.

The lines attached to the clear ball began to vibrated, inflate. In the center, a mist curled – it was not completely colorless, but shot through with veins of red and gold, and a touch of blue. After a nervous nanoclick, all activity stopped, and the three Autobots stood staring at a captured human mind and soul, all wrapped up into one coalescing mist.

"I hazard we will have to provide her with a new body?"

Ratchet glared at Perceptor. "We don't even know if this is a full personality transfer." He looked to Wheeljack.

"We can only hope."

Ratchet sighed and looked at the blood on his black palms. Not so different from Energon, coolants and mech fluid. "Clean up. I'll inform Optimus. He'll want to call her family."


	8. Darkness Abandon

**Chapter Eight  
**Darkness Abandon

_Don't you cry_/ **Ty nye plach'**,  
_Hide the tears_/ **Slyozy spryach'**,  
_Because a new day will start_ / **Ved' nastanyet novyy den'  
**_Your fire_ / **Tvoy ogon'  
**_Will be heated_ / **Sogryevat'  
**_By thousands of hearts_ / **Budyet tysyachi syerdets  
**_But now get up_ / **A syeychas podnimis'  
**_Hide the pain and fear far_ / **Spryach' podal'shye bol' i strakh  
**_The one who's right will win_ / **Pobyedit tot, kto prav  
**_Know that everything is in your hands_ / **Znay, chto vsyo v tvoikh rukakh  
**Origa, "Rise" Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex

It was an hour after dawn when the Ligier pulled into the Ark; pink streaks of dried Energon painted his sleek exterior, along with swatches of green coolant and thick oil. Quietly, he rolled through the main bay and transformed at the end.

"It's about time you returned."

Mirage didn't need a visual confirmation; he knew exactly where Prowl was standing, possibly with his arms crossed authoritatively. The second-in-command strolled over to the Ligier and laid a gentle hand on his cannon shoulder. "Prime wants to see you." And drew his hand away when he realized what Mirage was covered in. "Primus! What did you _do_?"

The white-blue Ligier idly rubbed his left elbow joint. "I took care of something," was all he said, and walked towards the elevator, leaving Prowl, for once, without a word.

Optimus was waiting for him when he entered his leader's office. The great semi looked up from the datapad he was reviewing, set it aside, and laced his blue digits together. "Have a seat, Mirage."

The spy closed the door behind him and took a perch on one of the two chairs that sat in front of Optimus' simple desk. Mirage took note of the slight tic in Prime's right brow ridge as the Autobot commander finally noticed his unsightly appearance. However, to his credit, Optimus did not mention it right away.

"Where did you go last night, Mirage?"

"I tracked down Ravage and left his parts scattered along a riverbank." And even Mirage was surprised by how calm and emotionless his vocalizer had become. But, what was there left for him to be emotional about?

Optimus barely nodded. "I see. So if you terminated him, why isn't Megatron banging on our door seeking retribution?" It was a trademark of Prime to question without accusing, no matter the issue.

Mirage did not shift. "I didn't terminate him. He still functions – barely. I made sure of it."

Optimus touched his helm vent in a rare show of fatigue. "This is highly out of character, Mirage. I understand that Alina meant a lot to you –"

"No, I don't think you do," the spy interrupted quietly. "I …" The admission caught in his vocalizer, and he swallowed a wad of lubricant, not knowing if he could ever bear his spark again. No, he could _never_ do such a thing.

The red-white-blue commander merely nodded, conceding that this part of the conversation was over. "We were able to bring Alina back to base in hopes of saving her … but, Mirage … I'm sorry, but she expired not a few clicks later."

_You needn't tell me_, Mirage mentally murmured. _I knew_. Indeed, he had prepared himself for that inevitability ever since he saw her body, steeling his spark against the anguish until he had taken his frustrations and sorrows on Ravage's body. There were no more tears to cry; no amount of howling would bring her back from Primus' AllSpark.

"Her brother and parents claimed her body a few hours before dawn. We found this in Alina's purse; her family said you could keep it."

Mirage raised a curious brow ridge. Reaching into a drawer, Optimus drew forth a small, slightly singed paperback. On the cover was the image of a dark angel rampant and two nude humans: one male, one female. _Paradise Lost_, by John Milton.

"How apropos," the spy muttered, leaning forward to take the book with the tips of two fingers. He turned it over, flipping to the first page. On the inside front cover, in Alina's slanted cursive, was the words: _To Mirage: May you find your own Paradise_.

The spy bent over, his malleable facial plates creasing in agony, gripping the fragile paperback in his fist. It crumpled easily. The shock of what he'd just done hit Mirage hard; he pried his own slim fingers open, but it was too late. The cover was harshly creased; Lucifer/Satan's face was twisted beyond the evil the original artist had intended. Hastily, he opened it; only the strong ink Alina had used secured her final words.

"Mirage."

Slowly, the Ligier lifted his head. Optimus laid both hands flat on the top of his desk. "What I didn't tell you was that Wheeljack, Perceptor and Ratchet performed a high-risk experiment in order to save her. They believe they were successful in pulling her mind and soul from her body at the moment her system expired."

The words barely registered in the spy's expansive cortex. "… what?" he breathed, his Energon pump rattling in his chestplate. "_What_?" Could it be true? Looking down at the paperback, he reverently smoothed the creases and tucked it safely away in his personal subspace.

"Come with me," and Optimus pushed himself away from his desk and stood.

Stiffly, Mirage pulled himself from his own chair and followed Optimus to the medbay. When the doors slid into their recess, the three looked up at the unexpected visitors. Mirage slipped from behind his commander and stared at the object that was seated in the far corner of the main bay. Perched on a table-tray was a large black-grey disk, surrounded by tens of blinking lights like one of those human-conceived spaceships. A clear dome sat atop the disk; a bundle of wires, grouped together and held with a clip, burst from several ports on the contraption. A flat screen monitor was hooked up to the other end and was currently displaying several tiers of lines, all in different colors and varying in thickness. It took the spy a moment to make the connection.

However, it took Ratchet less than half a nanoclick to come down hard on his skidplate. "And just where were you, Mr. Avenger? Get over here – now!"

Slowly, Mirage drifted by the irritated CMO and walked up to the cradle. Respectfully, he set his hands on either side of the tray and peered down into the contraption: what met his curious optics blew him away. There was a small ball, about the size of his clenched fist seated there; most of it was clear, save for several steel-colored ports to which wires were attached. But it was not the ball itself that intrigued the spy – it was what swirled around inside of it that caused his lower jaw to drop: a cavalcade of reds and golds swirled with the serenity of a drop of milk into a glass of water.

Wheels squeaked on tile as Perceptor rolled himself up to the tray. "Amazing, is it not?" the scientist queried gently. "I was dubious in the beginning, but it does seem as if human souls are as visible as Cybertronian sparks. Amazing!"

Questions rolled around in Mirage's cortex, but he could find no way to give them voice. Not now. All he could do was stare at the remnants of _Alina_, bobbing around like a laundry-bot.

A work-roughened hand grasped Mirage on his left shoulder. Without warning, Ratchet spun him around. "You can stare at the color show later. Right now, I want your can on the table. You're covered in fluids!"

With an eloquent shrug that concealed his mental anguish, Mirage evaded the medic's hold. "None of it is mine. All I need is a shower."

The CMO's chevron dipped to touch the top of his nasal ridge. "_I'll_ decide if your hale and whole, mister. Do I have to call Omega in and have him hold you down?"

Stealing a glance at the cradle, Mirage reluctantly agreed to subject himself to a quick and thorough examination by lord Ratchet. "So," the CMO muttered as he ran his hands underneath an ionizer for sterility, "who's is it?"

Though he was growing tired of the story, Mirage repeated himself once more. To his surprise, Ratchet's brow ridges rose in approval. "Well, I guess that means we won't be seeing him on the field for a while." Reaching over, he shut the spy's chestplate with a solid _click_. "Okay, Mr. Invisible. Get up."

Mirage complied, swinging his legs over the berth and sliding to the floor without a sound. "What will you do now?"

Ratchet was running his hands under the ionizer again. When he was through, he crossed his arms and looked over at the cradle; Wheeljack was making grand gestures and explaining the construction process to Optimus. "Well, I suspect we'll build her another body," he replied archly. "Though," he continued in a more serious tone, "it won't be a _human_ body. I thought we could, but we don't have the tools to simulate skin, let alone the numerous human sensations." Leaning up against the counter, Ratchet nodded at the cradle. "We will need some supplies from Cybertron, though. Optimus has already given his consent to the project." Ratchet looked over the top of his nose at the spy, who could find no words to the information that was being thrown at him. "None of this goes anywhere, you understand. Everyone has been sworn to absolute secrecy. If the humans found out … well, you thought that public relations slag was bad? We'd have to set up on their moon if they caught wind of this!"

Mirage fell back against the berth. Alina could be reborn? Desperately, he felt inside subspace for _Paradise Lost_ and flipped it open. "I'll go wherever you need me to," he pledged, more to the handwriting than to the CMO.

Ratchet scoffed at his sentimentality. "Hold your technoquines, fancy boy. None of us know if such a transfer is gonna _work_. We're hardly sure if _all_ of her got in there." He lifted a blunt hand and began ticking off his points. "If it does – and I'm not throwing all my ener-chips in yet – do you realize the consequences? Possible sensory deprivation, lack of coordination … we could build the best body, and she could turn out to be no more sentient than a droid!"

Mirage stared at the white medic, optic to optic. "But you're going to try."

Something flittered across Ratchet's stoic facial planes. "Yes, we're going to try. I'd do it for anyone: Spike, Sparkplug, Chip, Carly … even that Raoul hooligan Tracks insists on hanging out with."

Part of Mirage wryly noted that Ratchet left out Astoria Carlton-Ritz, Powerglide's official – and only – human admirer. Slowly, he turned his head to look once more at the cradle and its precious contents.

"We do need an idea," Ratchet prompted the Ligier.

"For what?" he replied, only catching half of what the white ambulance said. Ratchet reached out and flicked him on the shoulder.

"Pay attention, clog-audios. The girl needs a body. What should it be?"

Adroitly, Mirage tilted his head at the medic and gave him a look. All the femmes the spy had had dealings with, save that of his creator, were thin as Energon-conductors, big on the upper chassis and low on the intelligence. Oh yes, and big on some other things that had nothing to do with functionality. Still. Knocking those old memories out of his present thoughts, Mirage lowered his chin and peered at the cradle, trying to think of what Alina would want to be.

At first, he considered a silver Chevrolet Cavalier, the same car that Alina had owned. However, it was not at all attractive, with its large, rounded hind end.

Ratchet, noting his indecision, waved his hand. "Why don't you clean off Ravage's crap and get back to me on it sometime later today? I want to start this as soon as possible. We have no idea how long an organic soul can keep without a body."

Slowly, Mirage nodded and left the medbay, but not without a lingering look at the cradle. He rode the elevator to the wash rack and was silently pleased to find it empty. He was tired of the questions that were being asked, and all he wanted now was a little time to roll the events over in his exhausted cortex.

Slipping into a stall furthest from the entrance, Mirage parked himself under the nozzles and turned the water on. Powerful jets heated in part by the lava in the mountain pushed against his sore metal hide, sloghing off the grit, grime and dispare; the spy took great pleasure in watching the remnants of his butchery spiral down the drain. Letting his shoulders sag, he braced his forearms on his knees and dipped his head, rolling his back plates to reach his aching servos. As the tension eased, so did the strain on his cortex.

Reaching across to the other side, Mirage grabbed a bottle of cleaning solution and began throwing it all over the top of his head, down around his shoulders and over his thighs. A brush hung from a hook nearby, and he exchanged bottle for scrubber, letting the harsh Plas-tek bristles cleanse him, body and spark.

Once he was convinced that no speck of Decepticon fluid remained, he set the brush aside and began to think. The form Alina was to wear had to fit her personality as well as being fully functional. Besides, he couldn't see her sporting a Tower-figure; it was an insult to her vibrancy and her intelligence. Having ruled out the Cavalier, Mirage quickly flickered through other car forms, but came up with nothing that _fit_. So, he began to replay their myriad conversations, looking for some clue as to what she could be while still retaining the essence of _her_.

If not a vehicle, he began to wonder, then what about an animal? _We have the Dinobots, and as dense as they are, they've proved useful in their Primative way._

The image of a turbofox came instantly to cortex, but it was just as quickly dismissed. _That would better suit me_, he thought with a half smile, arching his back plates against the dual streams. Canine, equine, cervine, feline … all considered and subsequently dismissed. (Though, he did entertain the thought of a lithe, anonymous femme for a brief moment.) That left one major Earth animal group: avian. Having wings would give her an advantage that no jet could have: mobility. And it wouldn't help to have another flyer in the Ark – one that wasn't solo and cocky (Powerglide) or part of a gestalt (the Aerialbots/Protectobots) … or blessed with limited conversation skills (Swoop).

"Hey! Raj! Knock it off, whiner; you have to save some for the rest of us."

Slowly, reluctantly, Mirage reached back and shut off the shower. Not long after, Sunstreaker came waltzing into the stall, his hands planted on his shiny black hip guards. "Primus on his head," he tossed flippantly. "Didja recharge in there or what? Dream of your little girlfriend?"

Optics flashing, Mirage managed to keep his anger in check. While he could turn invisible at will, there wouldn't be enough time to duck Sunstreaker's accurate swing. The golden Lamborghini crossed his arms as the spy reached around the front of the stall for a towel and began drying himself off. "I hear they're gonna make her one of us. Should make you happy, eh?" He gave a wicked chuckle. "Things are better when they're actually your size." And he winked an optic.

Adroitly, Mirage folded the towel and hung it on the rack. "I see; so you're so impatient for some stimulation that you've begun interfacing with elephants?"

Instantly, the humor in Sunstreaker's classic grey face flashed to fury. He reached out and flicked the spy in the chest – hard. Enough so that Mirage took an inadvertent step backwards into the stall. "We'll see how much she likes you when she can actually appreciate my beauty properly." And with that, Sunstreaker popped into the cubicle next door, pointedly ending the conversation.

Mirage waited where he had been pushed, waited until he heard the water running and Sunstreaker begin to hum tunelessly to himself. Softly, the spy padded out of the washroom and back up to the medbay.

This time, he did encounter some of his fellow Autobots, but unlike Sunstreaker, they kept whatever comments they had to themselves. Only Windcharger paused long enough to touch his arm and give a tip of the head, indicating that he acknowledged the Ligier's pain. And Mirage actually found himself sympathizing with the red-grey Minibot; for it had been Windcharger who pulled Alina from the wreckage and carried her outside, her blood staining his armor.

Even after all this time, the occupants of the bay remained the same, albeit in different positions. The Ligier was surprised to see Optimus Prime sitting on a large tripod stool, staring into the dome. Standing nearby, Wheeljack was chattering about the various possibilities that lay ahead in Alina's new design.

"Well, don't you look fresh," Wheeljack commented sunnily, spotting the spy as he came through the door.

Ratchet turned around from where he was monitoring schematics. "Have anything in mind?"

Crossing the room, Mirage pulled up a second tripod and parked himself nearby. "Yes. Avian."

Wheeljack tipped his head to the side, earbulbs flashing. "Avian, eh? Interesting. We'll have to secure light material, which shouldn't be a problem as much of the heavy stuff would be gone by now."

Ratchet blew hot air from his ventilators. "Precisely, what _kind_ of bird? Songbird, psittacine, bird of prey?" He spun about, tapped a few keys on the console, and instantly, a hundred different species of Earth bird flooded the screen. "Hm?"

Mirage walked up to the console. His keen optics flicked over the images, dismissing a good chunk of them. "Delete the songbirds and the tropical ones," he murmured.

"I've got an idea," a familiar voice called out from the doorway. Mirage and Ratchet turned to see Hound leaning up against the frame, grinning. "How does a nature walk sound, Raj? Believe me, it's a lot easier to decide if you can actually see them up close."

Inwardly, the old Mirage groaned at the prospect of hiking with Hound; but the new, desperate Mirage quickly silenced that former part of his spark. Ratchet, however, glared. "If you take more than two days, I'll personally run down your hides and hang you on the boosters. Perceptor, Wheeljack," he snapped, more impatient than actually irritated, "let's get the mainform schematics down. We can add the altmode later."

Gratefully, the spy smiled at the tracker, ignoring Ratchet's threats. For all the times he had privately bemoaned Hound's love for Earth, today was the day he was glad for the Jeep's enthusiasm. "Let's go."

* * *

The officials at the San Diego Zoo did not know what to make of the two Autobots who waltzed into the park the moment the facility opened for the day. However, the two had paid for their own tickets and were thus granted full admission. 

Hound was in his element, peering into exhibits and even taking some time to let children perch on his shoulders for a better look. Mirage took the Jeep's deviations in moderation; after a day and a half on the road, cruising through all the major zoos on the West Coast, he had somehow learned a little patience, and a little more respect for the world on which he resided.

While Hound entertained himself by the African exhibit, Mirage managed to catch a zoo employee who did not appear to let her bladder go the moment his lean shadow covered her. "Pardon, miss," he queried at his most urbane, "but where might I find the raptor exhibits?" Over the course of their field trip, Mirage had come to the conclusion that a bird of prey would suit Alina just fine – not only that, but it was practical. What songbird, no matter how large, would stand a chance against the Decepticons? However, he was getting a little tired of Bald Eagles, Golden Eagles and the smaller raptors, like Harrier Hawks and Peregrine Falcons. Nothing tickled his fancy in those avians.

The woman gulped and tugged at her blonde braid to collect herself before replying. "What kind of raptor, sir?"

"Anything but hawks, falcons and those Bald and Golden Eagles."

"Why don't you follow me?" Quickly, she excused herself from the Ligier's shadow and began to walk briskly through the early morning crowd. Mirage followed at a respectful pace, linking his hands behind his back, all the while keeping part of his cortex alert for anything out of the ordinary.

In a short while, the spy could hear the cries of the large avians, harsh and loud. It was so powerful and assertive that he found himself entranced. Yes, he had made the correct decision. What a wild avian femme Alina would make!

Mirage's guide stopped before a large exhibit and looked up at the white-blue Autobot. "This is the Harpy Eagle, one of the largest birds of prey in the world. They have an impressive seven-foot wingspan and, despite their large size, are incredible agile, able to wing in and out of the trees of their native rain forests."

The hefty amount of greenery in the exhibit did not impede the Autobot's ability to see the raptors. One was perched in the cleft of a tree and was staring out with luminous, unblinking eyes. Of all the creatures that Cybertron had to offer, none could compare with this organic creature's grace or physical presence. Despite dwarfing the eagle as a human would a mouse, Mirage found himself captivated by its intensity. Predominately grey with a dash of white at the breast, the Harpy had a sharp black beak, black-tipped pinions and a dark band around its neck. Suddenly, the early wind blew and the eagle lifted its head; a large double crest fanned out and around its face, magnifying its majesty.

Behind him, Hound whistled low (a trick only he had been able to master). "Impressive. I take it this is it, Raj?"

"Yes."

With a smile, the tracker reached for his holographic projector. The zoo employee's expression of nervous tolerance turned into one of abject horror as she incorrectly interpreted the Jeep's intentions. "No! Wait!"

Hound paused; Mirage stared at her obliquely. "We didn't bring cameras with us," the spy tried to soothe. "It's not a gun," he added.

To prove his partner's point, Hound lowered the projector and cast a perfect, albeit tiny, image of Optimus Prime at the girl's feet. He even had the holographic leader "transform" and "drive" away. "See?"

Clearly, the girl had no words and kept silent for the duration of Hound's photo shoot. Mirage watched with an ever-increasing interest as one of the Harpies suddenly launched itself from its perch and winged to another part of the enclosure. "Got that one," Hound announced with a grin. "Any chance of us getting up close and personal?"

"Unless you want to travel to the Amazon, I'm afraid not," an authoritative male voice announced from behind them. "Jenny, you can go now." The two Autobots swung around and bent to look at the official. Stepping up from behind the Jeep, the man pulled back the brim of his cowboy hat and lowered his sunglasses a fraction of an inch. "Good morning, gentlemen. I'm Greg Hanson, curator for the raptor exhibit here at the San Diego Zoo. What can we do for you?"

Hound lowered his projector and stared at the small screen embedded in the back. "Actually, I think I have all that we need." He tipped his head at Mirage. The spy shrugged.

"Thank you for providing us with what we needed, sir," the Ligier told the curator, inclining his head. As one, the two Autobots turned away, leaving the curator speechless. "Let's roll, Hound, it'll take us all day to get back to base."

And the Jeep couldn't agree more.

_-------------------------------_

_Darkness …abandon …_

_senses gone_

_Is this … am I …_

_Dead?_

_No! No!_

_Warmth. Gentleness. _

_… who speaks? Darkness around …_

_fur gold senses_

memory_ …_

* * *

"_What is about the rest of your team that you don't like?"_

"_I guess you could say that I find them somewhat … unfinished. Unrefined."_

"_Because they weren't created like you? Because some of them had jobs?"_

" … _You make it sound like a crime to be privileged."_

"_Well, I find it a little odd that you're coming down hard on them, and you're more than willing to have a conversation with me. You could consider me 'common'."_

_-silence-_

"_I gotcha, didn't I?"_

"_Into a turbofox burrow, yes; my apologies."_

_-laughter- "Thought so."_

"_You have to understand that I just can't throw these opinions away. It's more complicated than that."_

"_That's why we have something called 'therapy' …"_

* * *

"_Do you regret us being here?"_

_-pause- " 'Regret'? No, I don't."_

"_Not even with the trouble we caused, the loss of your job? The disasters, the lives lost?"_

"_War happens even without Transformer intervention, Raj. There are wars going on right now that don't involve you." -pause- "… you know, for a while, I did. If but for a moment, I hated you. And then I realized that it wasn't YOU, but it was peoples' prejudices that lost me my job. Greed and power."_

"_Greed and power are a powerful pull in any sentient being's life. … I know that too well."_

* * *

"_Stupid question – but how do you see when you transform?"_

"_Not as stupid as some questions I've been privy to. I have several pairs of sensors in the 'nose', here … It's different in others – some, like Optimus and Hound, 'see' from their windshields and headlights. I don't think it's a concept that you can easily wrap your mind around."_

" …_no … I don't think so." -laughs-_

* * *

"_Show me Cybertron, Mirage …"_

… _mirage … mirage … mirage …_

_Mirage Mirage _

_... Mommy … _


	9. Rise – October 28, 1986

**Chapter Nine  
**Rise / October 28, 1986

_Touch my dreams and the magic wakens  
__Speak my name and the dream is yours  
__Born again in the name of Phoenix.  
__Then lost in legend my power endures.  
_Cynthia McQuillan, "The Phoenix"

Ratchet did not even look up as the medbay doors swung wide, then gently closed with a soft, pneumatic hiss. Out of the corner of his optic, he saw the white-blue spy cross by his workstation and pause a moment, curious as to what new part the medic was working on. The stalwart CMO refused to break his work-pattern and continued oiling the wing joint until the pinions moved freely. By his side sat two ultralight boosters, each with a fuel cable jutting from the top; next to those was a black hand, five steel talons poised by their respective digit. Behind Ratchet was a flat screen; a white wire outline of a femme and an eagle spun in a lazy circle side by side.

_Same thing every day_, the CMO mused as he turned the wing over. _Mirage goes out, Mirage comes back, Mirage parks his skidplate on that slaggin' stool and reads. Repeat_.

Early on in the designing process, Perceptor had expressed concern over possible radiation from the soul-cum-spark. This prompted them to set up a monitor for the sole purpose of tracking fluctuations in the spark's field. So far, nothing was out of the ordinary, except for the subtle increase in activity whenever Mirage was parked nearby. However, Ratchet did not want to get into any metaphysical discussions at the time, so he and the others continued to work and the matter was quietly dropped.

Surreptitiously, Ratchet stole a glance over at the corner; the spy had already taken up his customary position by the cradle and was pulling a reader from subspace. Ever since that girl had come into his life, there had been subtle changes in the spy's attitude. He seemed more willing to help humans and sat around more often during their off hours – even watching television with Hound and Windcharger. Once, during a repair job that left the Ligier offline, Ratchet had found several readers in his subspace pocket with un-Mirage-like titles, such as _The Chronicles of Narnia_, _Jane Eyre_ and _The Wasteland_. The last time the medic had caught the spy reading, it was an old, boring epic on the glories of the Towers. Idly, Ratchet wondered what he was reading now.

Setting the wing down, Ratchet pivoted, looked at the monitor and called up the transformation sequence they had designed. There was only so much subspace he could give this girl, what with his limited tools. The sequence had to be easy and fluid. Of course, there was also the problem of adjusting human senses to Cybertronian ones. Unfortunately, there were a few things the girl was going to have to do without … not that sex organs would be practical in a metallic-like being, anyway. On the whole, Ratchet was fairly pleased with what they had come up with.

Switching the image back to its original 3-D spin, the CMO took up the wing and both boosters, making for a curtained-off room where they were doing the actual assembly. It had taken a little persuasion and more than enough threats with a welder to keep Mirage from spying. On his Tower-born honor, he'd sworn he wouldn't pull his invisible act and sneak a peek behind their backs. Ratchet highly doubted he was sincere, but so far, Mirage had made no other suggestions as to the girl's new form. He stayed where he was parked and that was that.

The addition of a femme to the team had Optimus Prime a little concerned. Not that having a feminine cortex and form was of any concern to the Transformers, as it was with humans. Still, the majority of his troops had been without the fairer form of their species for nigh over four million human years, and there was no telling what they might do. Optimus had confided in Ratchet enough to warn him about certain aspects of Alina's new shape, which left the medic rolling his optics in irony. This was a war and the girl was no fool. Still, Optimus had contacted Elita-1 during one of the few times communication between Cybertron and Earth was possible and let his bondmate in on the Ark secret.

As he had told Ratchet, Elita was more than willing to let the new femme into her small band if that's what it came down to. However, as she slyly suggested, it was probably for the best that Alina remain on Earth, where her avian form would be less conspicuous.

"I found the hitch," Ratchet announced to Wheeljack and Perceptor. The latter continued working on the complex cortex of the inert grey body on the platform before him, while the former bounded over, his earbulbs flashing with glee.

"Excellent! What about the hand?"

Ratchet let the Lancia have the wing and folded his arms. "I think we should keep them sheathed. Do you really want an irritated femme running around with claws all the time?"

Wheeljack laughed, setting the wing beside its mate on a low workbench. He came back for the boosters, sat down and began to hook them up. "Where's your sense of adventure, Ratch?"

"In the refuse pile with the rest of the boron," he replied dryly. "How's the cortex coming, Perceptor?"

"It shall be completed within a nanoclick."

"Good. Gentlemen, I think we're ready to move on to the final phase." Air eased slowly from the chief medic's ventilators at the challenges still to come.

* * *

Later that evening, the three had completed all that they had set out to accomplish. There was nothing left for them to do except take the spark and insert it into the body. Only if the soul took would the shell cease to be an inanimate object and become a _person_. And, if not … then all would be lost, and the spark gone to Primus as it had been intended to. 

It had been a difficult matter to persuade Mirage to leave the room – for his own mental health, they argued, and as a precaution against a possible explosion. The spy stood firm, even threatening to disappear and flaunt their rules. He was taken to task by being called on his childishness and left the medbay, his tail tucked between his legs.

Perceptor pulled the curtain aside and wheeled the body out into the main bay. Wires and fuel lines sprouted from the shell, trickled over the edge of the gurney and snapped into a small generator located on a tray underneath. If the spark did not immediately take, Ratchet hoped a series of shocks to the system would get it into gear.

Stepping up to the gurney, Ratchet reached under the shell's grey chestplate and popped it so that it rose to rest against the sharp nasal ridge. A swift glance to Wheeljack was all that was needed; the inventor dragged the cradle and parked it nearby. Perceptor stood next to the CMO, watching the rise and fall of the lines on the monitor.

They were ready.

Wheeljack reached for a pair of tongs and slipped them over his right hand; with his left, he slowly raised the dome. One by one, he shut down the main power supply until there were only four lines left on the monitor: these were the four wires that attached the spark casing to the cradle. Carefully, the Lancia settled the tongs pads around the spark and lifted it from its base; with Perceptor watching the monitor judiciously, Wheeljack reached under and snapped the wires.

Instantly, the monitor began to emit a high-pitched peal, which Perceptor shut off immediately. At the same time, activity within the spark casing increased; the gentle swirls of red and gold intensified, become agitated and spinning around in a mad attempt to break free.

Wheeljack spun about and lifted the casing over the gaping hole in the middle of the shell's chest. Ratchet was waiting. He quickly pulled the new ports from the base and hooked them up to the bare wires' ends. In the same motion, Wheeljack lowered the casing until it sat atop the new hold; releasing the tongs, he stepped back a pace. With a fervent look to his comrades, Ratchet reached out and pushed the spark case down until a smart _click_ echoed around the silent bay.

A light, as bright as the sun, split the room in half. The Autobots cried out, throwing their arms up to shield their sensitive optics. Through slits in their fingers, they peered down into the shell: what had been a swirl of red and gold in a sea of misty white was a pure mix of the two colors – with what appeared to be a dash of blue. But that wisp was gone before they could truly comprehend its significance.

Their wonder was short-lived, for not a split nanosecond later, the screaming began.

---------------------------

_Warmth, joy … some doubt._

_Awareness. Voices. Familiar …_

_I … am ??_

"_Missed."_

_?? "You are mine, but not now. We will meet again soon, little one. For now, you will return. Live well and forget this conversation."_

_LIVE!!_

-------------------------------

PAIN! UNBELIEVABLE PAIN!

Couldn't _move_, couldn't _breathe_, couldn't _see_; **pain, pressure, _agony_**.

The world came rushing into her head in a fierce, fiery tornado that had no mercy. It filled her, tossed her vulnerable mind around like sticks in a windstorm. Sound roared in her ears, pressure built in the vicinity of her chest, pressing down, down … ever down!

Pain so intense that her mind threatened to burst. Somehow, she found her voice and screamed, arching against the bonds that held her down.

* * *

None of the three were prepared for the spark-shattering keen that issued from the charcoal lips. At the same instant, the body heaved a good half-foot off the gurney and came slamming down so harshly that the thin legs buckled, swayed and threatened to break. 

"Grab her!" Ratchet snapped as the shell began heaving, lip components gaping like an Earth fish.

"She's trying to breathe!" Wheeljack shouted over the din as he grabbed the pyramidal black legs while Perceptor scurried around to the darting head.

Gritting his dental plates in determination, Ratchet hauled back and pounded on the grey chestplate with all his might. The twin ventilators suddenly hiccupped and leapt into action, drawing precious air into the femme's system. While oxygen was vital for humans, it had a minimal purpose in Transformers: for the cooling and regulation of delicate internal systems. Still, they did "breathe", as it were, and for a human-turned-Transformer, breathing was necessary.

The femme bucked against her creators' restraining hands, keening – for there was no other word for it – with all her might. Tiny sparks flew from her lip components, splattering on her chest, devoid of an Autobot insignia. Luminous golden optics flashed and her white face contorted with unspeakable _pain_.

For more than an hour and a half, Ratchet, Wheeljack and Perceptor struggled with the reborn female. The fight jumped from the gurney to the floor; all the while they talked to her, trying to reason with the frightened innocent now forever trapped within a body of trylithium steel. Throughout the battle, Ratchet listened for her vitals, nodding each time he heard the thump of her Energon pump, the slight whirl of her ventilators and the near-imperceptible thrum of her laser core.

"Alina, Alina," they coaxed as the wild jerking and swaying began to die down. At last, the fight drained away with the minimal amount of Energon they'd put into her system. The grey femme sank to the floor, spent in body and cortex. Slowly, Wheeljack and Perceptor released their holds on her extremities and stretched her out on the ground. Ratchet hunkered down and gently touched the girl's sharp-planed cheek. Her mouth was open, panting; her thin brow ridges were low over her golden optics, colored to reflect her avian exterior.

"Alina, do you remember me?"

Behind the glass, the sensors could not quite focus on his whereabouts; slowly, with great effort, the head turned. " … _hssszzzsssshhhh_ …" Frustration replaced uncertainty; the lips opened, closed, and the white throat contracted with the effort to bend the metal voice box to the will of her cortex. " …_hssshhsshhhh-tchshhheet_."

Ratchet traded a glance with Perceptor; the scientist could only shrug, clearly out of his element. "Yes, I'm Ratchet," he affirmed. "This is Wheeljack and Perceptor. Remember us? We're Autobots. You're among friends, Alina. You're alive."

More frustration in that white face as she struggled to comprehend. " … Ahhhh-lighhhhvvvv."

Ratchet nodded. "We can do this all night. One step at a time."

Slowly, but surely, she began to improve, and true to form, they stayed there throughout the night and well into the next day. While the mind came up to speed in a matter of hours, the body still refused to cooperate. They gave her little sips of Energon and managed to coax her into letting them put fuel directly into her system via a neck line. Due to her former humanity, these practices left her trembling, with washer fluid leaking from the corners of her optics.

As day waxed into night, Ratchet set up a recharging berth in the corner for the sole purpose of keeping an optic on the girl-turned-femme while she slept. Easing her into the down-time process didn't take all that long – Alina was more than tired in several areas, and she slipped easily into recharge.

* * *

The hours leading up to and surpassing her rebirth were a complete blank in her mechanical mind. The only comparison Alina had was of being so tired, so weary, that you fell asleep and did not dream – you just slipped into that velvet darkness with no recollection of having gotten there. Only, her awakening came with a new body. The initial shock was a faint memory; the circumstances surrounding how she got there were stuck tight up against the front of her mind. 

As succinctly as they could, the Autobots had told her the how, when and why of her transformation. And that there was no going back – ever. It was cold and cruel, but it was the truth. And if she wanted to continue to live, she had to accept it.

How could she explain to herself just what had transpired? Every morning since her resurrection, she woke up to a feeling of heaviness in her arms, legs and chest. Gradually, these feelings waned as she got used to the new weight she was carrying around. Everything that she knew as a human as pertained to the five senses were thrown out the proverbial window … There had been a moment where Ratchet was walking her along beside her, getting her used to these obscenely triangular feet when, suddenly, something snapped up before her eyes (OPTICS). Charts, graphs, rolling, scrolling bars. She'd thrown up her hands and almost fell backwards before Ratchet was digging around inside her head (very unnerving) and banished the images.

There were so many things that she had to control in this mechanoid body that she feared she would go insane before she mastered them all. Coordination was one thing; the various knick-knacks and do-dads that had been incorporated into her form were another. Not to mention the giant wingspan and animal-head backpack she was stuck with for life.

Opening her optic shutters, Alina groaned. It was still fairly dark in the main bay; against the wall, she could see Ratchet dozing, propped up on the console of one of the huge computers, his ankles and arms crossed. Quietly, so as not to wake the charging medic, she willed her legs to swing over the side of the berth. As she got used to it, metallic skin wasn't that different from human flesh; she still _felt_ the same, which initially surprised her, but other than being tougher than regular steel, it was pretty sensitive. Perhaps a little more sensitive than before.

With a deep breath that sounded a little hollow to her new ears (AUDIOS), Alina gripped the edge of the berth, hooking her talons on the underside, and pushed off. Gingerly, she touched the burnt orange floor with the golden tip of one foot and leaned all of her new, considerable weight on it. Pausing, gauging, she deemed herself sturdy enough, and let the other foot fall. Her new equilibrium swung into gear and with it, her wings fanned on either side of her, balancing her out – as they should have done from the beginning, she'd been told.

Wings. She smiled slightly to herself, the motion feeling a bit out of whack. Like an old wound, she had to work these new facial plates all the time, to get them to bend to her unconscious cortex. Otherwise, she was told she looked depressed. Yes, as for the wings, that was a welcome surprise; she loved flying, ever since her parents took her and Richard to Disneyland when they were quite small. The thrill and the rush came back every time she set foot on an aircraft – and now, she was her own personal one! (When she could learn how, that is.)

Slowly, Alina tip-toed across the floor, bent on helping herself for once. All this cozening was welcome at first, but now she wanted to do something on her own. Not to mention the fact that she hadn't seen anyone for the two weeks that she'd been awake. Loneliness was eating her soul (SPARK) out. Not usually given to disobedience, she had to _leave_. The orange walls were closing in on her in ways that they never had before.

Step by step, she moved along, more at ease with this new body than she had been in the past. Perhaps, at long last, her mind (CORTEX) was taking over the unconscious motions, letting her deal with the here and now, the other things that she shouldn't be concerned about.

"Going somewhere, little one?"

With a short cry, Alina stumbled backwards, only to have two strong hands slip under her armpits and keep her from falling. She twisted, feeling her tailfeathers and raptor beak scrape against something hard.

Lights exploded in the medbay; across the room, Ratchet stood glaring at her, his grey chevron low on his brow. "I thought I told you to stay out until I deemed her fit enough," he growled at the nothingness behind Alina. There was no reply. The grip suddenly slackened and she tipped forward until her wings flicked out and the raised onyx talons above each single golden toe snapped down on the tile to support her.

"Not bad," Ratchet commented in a smoother, gentler tone. He pushed himself off the console and walked over to her, frowning at the air. "It looks to me as if you've finally made the transition."

Turning slowly, Alina looked Ratchet in the optics. It was still a little disconcerting to suddenly find herself on eye-level (or close to) beings she had once feared would step on her. "I still feel weird," she admitted, the sound of her new voice with its metallic flange heavy in her audios.

"Well, that will take time, but I think we're ready to move you onto the finer things, like transforming, agility and weapons' training."

"Don't you think that's up to her?" Mirage commented from the air.

Whipping around, Ratchet made a mad grab for the space behind Alina. His thick black fingers closed on empty space. "I told you – leave! You can have all the time in the world later."

Alina turned, a feeling in the air letting her know that Mirage was hovering right behind her. The sensation sent a short spark up the back of her metallic neck. It was almost as it was before – only stronger. She didn't _think_ she knew – she was _positive_ that he was there. Biting her lower lip (component), she reached behind her and was amazed when her talons scraped metal. Her fingers closed on a wrist, which immediately solidified. There was no shock on the spy's sky blue face, only the long, drawn expression he had been wearing the first time she'd seen him.

Without warning, her sight magnified, zooming her past his angled cheek and right into his left optic. Stumbling backwards, she dug black digits into the tough colored glass, willing her vision to return to normal. There was a slight, almost imperceptible _click_ inside her head, and when she lowered her fingers, everything was as it had been.

Ratchet was watching her thoughtfully. "You're controlling it – also good," he murmured. But that didn't stop him from pointing quite firmly at the bay doors. Mirage glowered, but finally turned around, melting into invisibility; the bay doors hissed open, then shut. Alina watched him go; she thought he might remain, but that certain "heaviness" in the air that signaled his presence was gone.

The white Autobot medic grumbled low in his vocalizer before turning to her. "You'd think he'd had enough," he muttered, more to himself than to her as he reached for her right arm to begin their morning exercise ritual. "Sat on his skidplate day after day by your cradle – bend, good, now rotate that arm, and the other – you'd think he'd give you some time to yourself. Lift your chin …"

But Alina was only barely paying attention. She remembered very little from her time between worlds, and to discover that the Autobot spy had not only paid her a visit, but stayed there for hours on end …

"Pay attention, miss," Ratchet reprimanded gently, but firmly. "I want those wings out."

Obediently, Alina turned and with a little frown of concentration, fanned her black metal pinions. From the way they were designed, she wondered how she was going to be able to fly, but Perceptor and Wheeljack assured her that it was more in the thrust than the actual organic manner of flapping.

"What happens now, Ratchet?" she asked quietly, submitting to his tweaking. The medic paused and unbent himself from where he was tinkering with her right hip.

"You'll have to explain yourself a little better than that, girl."

Alina sighed, exhaling a short, warm jet of air from her ventilators. It blew across her grey chest, molded to feminine proportions. "Everything. What am I? Who am I? I'm … alive … but what now?"

Quietly, Ratchet folded his arms, carefully considering his words. "You're one of us now. As to whom you are, that's up to you. If you want to change your name, that's also up to you. I'd recommend it, because as you know, we have that code of silence."

"I know," she replied softly. Along with the new body, the death of her old one at the paws and claws of the Decepticon Cassette Ravage had been hard to take. Not only that, but the hard, cold fact that due to the nature of her revival, no one could know. Not even her parents. And that is what stung the most. No more family, no more friends … only Transformers.

A firm, almost paternal hand gripped her on the right shoulder strut. Ratchet said nothing; his bright blue optics told her what she needed to know. "Now, are you ready to try transforming?"

Looking at the bay doors, Alina slowly turned her head to meet Ratchet's questioning optics. Hadn't there been enough tests? "Please, can I go out? I've been in here for two weeks, Ratchet … I need to … move."

The medic's brow ridge drew low over his optics as he considered her request. With a quick jerk of his head, he relinquished his hold. Malleable metal plates stretched wider than before as Alina grinned and made her way for the door. She paused by the control panel, finger hovering over a green button, white and red. Embarrassed, the metal of her sharp cheeks warming, she looked over her shoulder for confirmation. "Green," the CMO allowed before turning to some other pressing matter. She hit the green one and was delighted when the doors slid back into their recesses.

It was as if the world had opened before her. Endless corridors stretched in both directions, at once daunting and exciting. Well, it wasn't as if she was going to be stopped or stepped on anytime soon. Feeling her new heart (ENERGON PUMP) quicken in anticipation, she steeled her resolve and began walking, going to the right, as it seemed more natural – that, and she was still right-handed.

So strange, she thought, to be here. Of course, not as strange as her current situation, but strange in the sense that this is where she belonged now – and really, she didn't have a choice. That alone should have her feeling oppressed, but there were other emotions vying for attention at the present moment.

One corridor led to another and she followed them aimlessly. To her surprise, the Ark appeared to be empty. Her pyramidal feet no longer gave her much concern, now that she had some semblance of an idea how to work with them. She supposed they were that way for a reason – part of her avian altmode. The one she had only seen in diagrams and in a wire exhibition. Her wings, on the other hand, were a little bit harder to maneuver – especially around corners. Hopefully no one paid much attention to the slight scrapes in the orange metal. It _was_ a battleship, after all, she reasoned as her left outer pinion made a horrible screeching sound as she went around a bend in the hall. Gritting her teeth, she manually tucked the errant steel feather back into position.

Following directions inlaid in bronze plates at every junction, Alina found the elevator and, a little disconcerted that she could instantly read Cybertronian, selected the lowest level. On the way down, she stood with her back to the doors, watching the view from the open window in the back; upon impact with Mt. St. Helens millennia ago, much of the Ark's outer walls had been blown wide open. This elevator once was enclosed by orange metal, but now it was surrounded by heat-burnt rock; if she peered over the edge, she could see into the bottom of the semi-active volcano.

Moments later, the elevator chimed and the doors hissed open – to three Autobots. Alina gaped, they gaped, their mouths slack at her sudden presence. One was Hound; the other two she barely knew, and only recognized by their colorations.

Hound swept into the elevator and picked her up, swinging her up and down in unabashed joy. "They told us it was a success," he crowed, waltzing her out of the elevator, "but they wouldn't let us see you until you were completely autonomous. Amazing! Look at you!"

"Easy, Hound," the yellow-green mech cautioned dryly. "You'll whip that crested head of hers right off."

Hound's grey facial plates tinged pink, and he immediately set her down. Alina laughed despite herself, the world spinning only slightly.

"Well, she certainly doesn't look like any femme I've ever seen," the stocky, blunt mech continued, flicking his optics up and down her grey-white-black figure. "Get a load of those feet, Smokescreen."

Hound threw an arm over her struts. "Easy, Brawn. Let's not make fun of her; she didn't choose to look like this."

Brawn huffed. "No, Mirage did," he muttered and rolled his optics.

Eye ridges rising, the grey femme turned towards Hound for an explanation, but the tracker merely shrugged. Confused, Alina gently disengaged herself from the Jeep's affable embrace. "It's all right, really," she replied, trying in vain to sort out the Minibot's shocking admission. "It's been difficult to get used to them, but they've … well, grown on me." She grinned, the expression at its most fluid.

Brawn tipped his thick head to the side, studying her. "So, what are you supposed to be – some sort of feathered jet? That's all we need around here – another cocky ace." He walked around her, taking in the golden knee spikes, the blades on her lower legs; around to the back where her split white tailfeathers twitched unconsciously at his scrutiny. Alina stayed put, her black trifold crest quivering against her grey helm; she didn't notice these reactions from her metallic body any more than she took note of the thrum of her Energon pump or the subtle whirr of her ventilators. She felt Brawn take a good, long look at her avian head backpack, skirt her wingspan and then make his way back to the front.

Hound was looking at her, trying to capture her optic. She merely shrugged. It was to be expected. "So?" the stocky Minibot prompted. "What on Cybertron _are_ you?"

"An eagle, I'm told."

"Harpy Eagle," Hound clarified. "One of the largest on Earth."

"Oh." Brawn did not seem impressed; he crossed his thick arms over his even thicker chest. "Bird intelligence doesn't come with the mode, does it? Wouldn't want another Swoop …"

Quiet up until now, the blue-grey Smokescreen coughed. "I think that's enough, Brawn," he chastised softly. "The Dinobots were created with the limited technology that we managed to salvage. It is quite apparent to me that Alina here is fully sapient."

That he knew her name surprised her – and embarrassed her not to have known his immediately. "If she's gonna be one of us, she needs to know what she's doing," the Minibot retorted. "Whatever. I'm going upstairs. Later." And he pushed past Hound and entered the elevator alone.

Smokescreen inclined his head to her and followed the Minibot before he could shut the door in his face. That left her alone with Hound. "So, Doc Ratchet let you out. Where're you off to?"

Alina half-turned, looking down the long corridor to the main bay beyond. At that moment, a sweet, soft breeze blew through, bringing with it the scents of autumn. _When I … died … it was late summer_, she thought, her crest quivering slightly. _Two months out of the loop_. "Outside. I have to go out."

Clearly, the green tracker wanted to go with her, but he seemed to understand that she wanted to be alone. "I'll see you around then." He started off down another hall, but stopped in mid-stride. "Hey, has Raj seen you yet? He's been … well … moping around for the last two months. I'm sure this'll make him happy."

Alina paused. First the vigilance, now moping. Apparently she hadn't realized how much their friendship meant to him. Well, she'd make it up to him … somehow. "Actually … yes. He came into the bay a while ago."

"You mean he broke in," Hound laughed. "Ratchet keeping him out after you woke up was like keeping Spike away from video games!"

Alina stopped dead. "Spike – how is he?"

Hound leaned up against the wall. "Fine. He had some smoke inhalation and some cuts and bruises, but he's fine. Even better now that he knows you're all right."

Slowly, she nodded to herself and turned around, leaving the bay and Hound. The wide Oregon desert opened up before her like a summer flower, fresh, clean and innocent. The moment she left the protective lip of the Ark, she heard a mad whirring noise, issuing above her. Keen golden optics locked onto three security cameras bolted to the rock above the boosters.

Startled, Alina could only stare at them, as if at any moment, someone would come stalking out and demand that she come back inside. She waited three loud thumps of her pump before realizing that no one was going to reprimand her. Glancing about, she began to walk around the base of the mountain, the whine of the cameras following her.

Not far from the Ark entrance was a steep slope; she stopped at the edge, looking down into a wide valley surrounded by the rest of the mountain chain. To her surprise, there was a large basketball court, football field and shooting range, all contained in this one area.

Gauging her balance, Alina set one foot atop the shale and ran/stumbled down to the bottom. Tiny rocks pinged against her armor, but otherwise did not hurt her. The sensation was akin to being hit with cotton balls.

When she reached them, it was apparent that these fields were used often – and hard. There were gouges, ruts – and even burn marks on the grass. She squatted at the edge of the football field and stretched out her taloned fingers, running them through the thick grass. It barely tickled, but she could sense the blades perfectly. To challenge her dexterity, she sought out one blade and plucked it; the leaf came out easily enough, and she raised it to her optics. Frowning with concentration, she willed that errant vision to increase – slowly. And like a microscope, it did. Impressed with her mastery, she let the grass leaf fall to the ground and stood up, stretching herself to her full height.

Her wanderings led her to the end of the valley. At the border, a small stream ran cool and clear. With her wings fanning out on either side of her, keeping her balanced, Alina crouched at the bank and looked at herself for the first time in the liquid mirror. For reasons that the three mad scientists were fairly vague on, she wasn't allowed to look at herself until she had mastered her new body. What little glimpses she managed to get – in the reflection of her data pad, the medbay screens, polished steel – gave her a distorted view.

Her face was a bare wisp of what it had looked like when she had been human – more angular, with sharp cheeks and a high brow. Wistfully, she reached up and touched the back of her bare head – or helm, as it was. No more lustrous black locks fell to her shoulders, her one and only vanity. It was replaced by the helm; sitting in the center of her forehead was a curved black diamond with three stylized "feathers" jutting from it. These, as she had found out, responded to her mood like a bird's crest, flicking up, down or lying flat.

Two black dials were attached to either side of her head where her ears would be; jutting out from those were two black spines. Reflectively, Alina touched her sharp white cheek, then down to her black lips. Neither color was extreme, so she didn't look like an alabaster corpse with jet black lipstick – it was more charcoal than onyx, she decided.

So … this was who she was now. A human soul in a robot's body. Her mind no longer a grey mass, but a complex construction of nodes, diodes, wires and microchips. _Who are you now, Alina?_ she asked the image in the water. _Human – raptor – robot?_

The stream merely bubbled back at her. In a motion that she could not put a handle on, she reached out and grabbed at the liquid, letting its crisp coolness run through her fingers. _Remember! Remember who you are!_ it seemed to tell her.

Tears of frustration, of lost hopes and misplaced futures, burst from her golden optics and ran in thin rivers down her sharp-planed cheeks. _At least I can cry_, some coherent part of her cortex noted dryly. Emotions coursed through her and she struck out at the water, beating her aggravations upon the changing waves. "Gone! All gone! Mom! Dad! Richard! … Oh, God!" Her motions rocked her on the bank, and she slipped, landing aft-first on the hardening ground.

"OW!" she keened, slumping forward. "Oh ... _God_ …" Pain oozed from every crack, every line of her new body. She rocked and cried, rocked and cried as if she would surely shake herself to pieces. All the aching loss that she'd valiantly tried to keep bottled up inside flowed out in a roaring wave, overwhelming her new senses. She could never go back, never hold her family in her arms.

Never.

It was so _final_. So obscenely black and white. Great tears without an end poured from crackling optic sensors as she continued to heave her frustrations and sorrows into the stream.

"**_If anyone found out what we have done,"_** Ratchet had told her at his most gentle, **_"then we'd have every Primus-forsaken deaths'-bed person at our door, begging us to do the same."_** He'd paused then, his optics distant**_. "It just … can't be done."_**

At the time, she'd tried to keep from losing her mind by putting on a brave face. Ratchet had smiled, and turned away. But he would never know the cyclone that tore through her very soul at his pronouncement, cunningly hidden away by the same smooth facial planes he had helped sculpt. "Mommy …" she whispered through a vocalizer punished by pain. "Mommy!"

Her parents would die, never knowing that their only daughter still lived, her mind and soul forever bound to a metal shell. They would watch the Autobot-Decepticon war on TV, watch the parade of mechs and never guess that the monochromatic femme was once their child.

Washer fluid fell with a steady, even drip into the water, circling quietly downstream. Perhaps it was a trick of the shadows, a rock that had been pushed into position by the stream's might, but it almost seemed as if two calm, golden eyes framed by a dark canine face was regarding her steadily before the current picked up and it floated along.

* * *

Mirage watched her swing and curse; watched her fall and scream. He did not, however, notice the image in the water. The spy rose from his crouch not far from where she sat, where he had been silently observing her ever since she had left the Ark proper. He understood her frustrations and empathized with her situation. Thought not completely similar, they had both risen from destruction to a life they had not been prepared to live. 

Wordlessly, he uncloaked and walked towards her. Lost in her pain, she did not turn her head as he sat beside her, letting his legs dangle in the water by hers. Awkwardly, he reached out and put his arm around her shoulder struts.

A low, choking sob caught in her vocalizer as she came to. Scrubbing wildly at her face with those black palms, Alina lifted her chin and saw who was there: optics widened, brow ridge rose into that absurd crest. "Mir-age …"

He merely smiled, a slow tug at the corners of his mouth. Suddenly, she cried out, throwing her arms around him, burying her head in his neck joint.

The spy was taken aback by this sudden mood-swing; his entire frame went ram-rod straight as his cortex fought to process everything. Never before had he been locked with a femme in this manner; never had he been considered a well of solace. "A – lin –" But she only clung tighter, her talons digging into his sensitive back plates.

Mirage squirmed, but tried to remain steady. After a time, she loosened her death-grip and slipped out of his hold. The spy watched her rock slowly back and forth before stopping, her arms between her legs. When she had been human, it'd been easier to ignore her femininity; now that she wore a femme's form, it was going to be a lot harder, all things considered. He wasn't used to treating femmes as anything more than playmates, hangers-on, or momentary conversationalists. _She's still your friend_, that new part of him reminded matter-of-factly.

"Alina." He stood up, drawing his legs from the chilling waters. Slowly, her head lifted, and in the growing darkness, her dim optics brightened a little. "Come on. You're going to lock your joints if you keep your feet in there." Gallantly, he offered her his hand.

She looked at him, unsure. Something crossed her face, but she seemed to make up her mind. Reaching out, she took his slim black hand with her taloned one and allowed him to pull her to her feet. True to his word, she had a little trouble flexing the joints, if but for a moment.

"Go inside," he suggested, still holding onto her hand. Try as he might, his fingers would not unlock. How … odd.

Demurely, she cast her optics to their locked hands, then back up to him. And then she smiled. "Thank you," she whispered. She was the one to let go, and began to walk back towards the Ark, leaving the spy by the stream bank, watching her move away.

Relieved, the Ligier smiled in the heavy dusk and faded into the air. _Remember when you asked me to name one thing about this world that I liked? … It is you …_


	10. Solarflare – I'm a Soldier

**Chapter Ten  
**Solarflare / I'm a Soldier

_I'm a soldier, born to stand  
__in this waking hell I am  
__witnessing more than I can compute  
_Origa, "Rise" Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex

Ascending the shale bank proved too difficult at the moment, so the femme wandered around until she found solid rock. Setting talons and claws into the thin fissures, Alina climbed up and dusted herself off at the top. Looking back, she sighed, the action rattling her chest. Did Mirage know how much he had helped her by that simple action? She had thought he would've pushed her away, because she knew that he wasn't completely sold on inter-personal contact unless he initiated it … but she'd been surprised in the end. _Now … where did he go? _she asked herself, clenching her fists; onyx talons bit warningly into her sensitive palms. With a short cry, she uncurled her long, thin digits, examining her hands for damage. _Even metal beings feel pain_, the reminder echoed.

"It's good to see you up and about," a deep, resonate voice noted from behind.

Wings outstretched, crest up, Alina spun around. The great patriotic form of Optimus Prime stood silhouetted by the sinking sun, watching her with those kind, wise blue optics. "How are you feeling?" He tilted his head to the side, battlemask dropping down in what she thought could be a frown. Suddenly, she understood – her face. Using the backs of her hands, she rubbed at the residual liquid, wishing that she had thought of washing off in the stream – or brought a rag.

"I –" She started, then ground to a halt. Even at her present height, Optimus was still very much taller than she: twenty feet or more of power and responsibility. "Better, now," she admitted. "But … I … I'm still … confused, scared, sick …"

Whatever else Optimus had wanted to say in regards to her cosmetic condition were dismissed. "I know those feelings well," he murmured. "Walk with me a moment, please?"

Well, she could hardly refuse a request from the mech who had ordered her saved. Linking her hands as far as they would go behind her back, she fell into step beside the Autobot commander – _her_ commander?

Optimus let them walk in silence for a moment before he began speaking. "I know that you are new to this form, and to our way of life. If this were any other time – if we had come here in peace, it would be a different matter …" Slowly, he shook his head, surprised as she at his uncharacteristic rambling. "I need to ask you one important question."

His meaning could never be clearer to her. "You want me to fight for you."

"Yes." There could never be more sadness in such a positive word. "But not _for_ me, but _with_ me – with us. That is the Autobot way. I wish I could send you somewhere else, but that elsewhere would only be Cybertron. And I'm afraid you would be met with more questions than acceptance there. As you know, no one save us, Spike, Sparkplug and Carly know of how you came to be. Our records have been altered accordingly to show that you arrived from Cybertron as part of a reinforcement agreement with Elita-1." Optimus stopped by the ridge leading into Portland. "Though, when I told her, Elita said that she is more than willing to accept you into her band." Clasping his hands behind his back, Optimus regarded her steadily.

Slowly, she nodded, all the implications of this body never more clear. "I … understand." What had started out as a fight for her life turned into a fight for the world … _and_ her life. "I …" She paused, stalling so that she could make up her mind. The Ark and Earth or with "her kind" of Transformers and Cybertron? Optimus merely watched her as she shuttled her thoughts around.

_Whatever you choose will have you going toe-to-toe with other metallic beings – monsters_, she amended. _The same breed of monster that took your life in the first place_. But, did she really want to slog through what new life she was trying to make for herself as a gun-wielding soldier of fortune? She hadn't wanted any of this … _But it's better than being dead_, she realized.

"I … want to stay."

Though he wore a mask, Alina got the feeling that Optimus was smiling – somehow. "Your training will begin as soon as I can secure someone. From now on, you are an Autobot, with all the responsibilities, duties and perils that come with that designation."

His words resonated deep within her metallic body, into that swirling orb that held her soul. He trusted her, believed in her. In the light of the dying sun, Alina stood taller, her wings fanning out to catch the bygone breezes. Gone were the office squabbles, the commutes, the petty human intricacies that caused tempers to flare and rifts to build. Could she shoulder such an awesome responsibility? More so, could she live up to Optimus' obvious expectations? "I understand," she breathed, the seriousness of the situation never more acute.

"Good. I would like to see you early tomorrow morning in the main meeting room." Optimus reached out suddenly, and squeezed her on the strut. "I know how hard this is for you, but you have us for support. And know that my door is always open."

All she could seem to be capable of was nodding. Optimus watched her a moment before letting go; he began to walk back towards the Ark when he stopped. "I need mention one more thing. This war has stretched us all thin; many of us hold several positions – I believe the term humans use is 'wear more than one hat'? Well, from what Hound has said, you used to be a secretary?" He waited for her confused acknowledgement before continuing. "We are in need of a secondary comm officer. Blaster is more than willing to teach you the ins and outs of his position."

Alina simply stared; but with Optimus looking at her so expectantly, she could only concede. "I – can't vouch for perfection –"

"No one is perfect," the Autobot commander told her gently. And, taking those words for her assent, he inclined his head and began to walk away. "Until tomorrow."

"Yes … sir." And saluted him in the Marine manner that her father had taught her. To her surprise, Optimus paused, stood at attention, and returned the salute. And then he was gone, slipping into the main bay, leaving her alone.

With a deeper sigh than before, Alina watched the sun set and darkness fall. The air grew quite cold and decided that it was time for her to go inside. She walked slowly into the Ark, ignoring the cameras. When she returned to her berth in the medbay, Ratchet was no where in sight. That, in of itself, was a blessing in disguise.

Taking up a perch on the berth, Alina idly began swinging her feet back and forth, thinking. Could she blame Optimus for telling her that it was now her duty to fight an enemy that was not really hers to begin with? _But, didn't that same non-enemy kill you?_

She pressed a hand to her forehead, somewhat surprised to find a headache worming its way behind her optics. Training, experiments, more training, more experiments. Would she ever have a life again?

_Who _are_ you, Alina?_

_Alina …_

She frowned. What had Ratchet said about changing her name? If there was something she should consider, that was it. But, she didn't want to – it was _her_ name, her only link to her humanity. Metal _ting'ed_ on metal as her crest flopped towards her helm. Her talons curled around the berth's edge as insanity hovered around the border of her mind. _But you can't be "Autobot Alina"_, reason argued, somehow sounding like a whole other person inside her head.

"No, I can't," she realized aloud, reaching up and dashing a stray tear from her white cheek. In order to live, she had to change … and to give up that last remnant of her humanity. Of her former life. She had to change, evolve – survive.

There was a digital pad around here somewhere … Reaching down, she fished under the berth for the device Ratchet had given her to help practice her dexterity, and to work on her Cybertronian characters. Taloned fingers touched rounded metal; she stretched, pulled the pad out and placed it in her lap. Pulling out the stylus, she tapped it gently on the reactive surface. "A name …" But where to begin?

**Swiftwind** – she wrote. And quickly scribbled that out. There was no way she'd name herself after a cartoon winged unicorn!

**Wind ... blade**? No. Too … severe. **Wind** – _Get "wind" out!_ She thought savagely and pushed that word to the back of her cortex. _Okay … how about something to do with birds? Eagle, hawk, falcon? No, nothing goes well with that …_ She crossed those out and cleared the pad. _What about color?_ **Grey** … _what? Greystoke!_

Laughing, Alina cleared the pad again. Pausing, she stuck the stylus in her mouth and chewed on that thoughtfully. She considered the names of the Autobots she currently knew; many of them seemed to be characteristic: descriptive of personality or function. Both in English and Cybertronian. **Sun, moon, stars; rain, shadow, storm; fire, water, ice**_ …_ Frustration began to set in and she restrained herself from chucking the pad into the corner.

She had to come up with something in time for tomorrow. Looking down at the pad, she touched each word. After she came back to **sun**, she hesitated. **Sunfire**? No, she didn't quite want to be identified with a car … not to mention there was already an Autobot in residence with "sun" in his name – and he was not the sort of fellow she wanted to piss off. But **fire** gave her cause to pause; if not fire, than … Alina wracked her newly-installed brains, chasing after a synonym. Fire – flame? **Flame** … no, that didn't fit her.

Flame, fire … **flare**.

"Flare." She spoke it, rolled it around on the metallic tongue she'd been given. "Flare." And smiled. _I like it_. It was spunky, but not too presumptuous … but … lacking. That brought her back up to sun. **Sunflare**, of course, was out of the question, not to mention awkward to say. But …

**Solar** … flare.

Optics wide, she stared down at the pad, at the word she'd just written in thick digital cursive. Related to **sun** and it already worked well with **flare** …

"Solarflare." The more she said it, the better she liked it. "Solarflare!"

* * *

Alone, the grey femme walked into the meeting room. To her chagrin, it was packed with every Autobot not needed on active duty. Chairs scraped backwards and heads craned around their comrades to get a better look at the newest soldier in the fight against the Decepticons. In the background, someone made a very rude toot, which she assumed was analogous to a cat-call. Deigning not to acknowledge it, Solarflare looked for the large bulk that was Optimus Prime – and found him still sitting in his oversized chair at the head of the ovoid (orange) table. 

"At ease, Autobots," he directed, lifting one blue hand and waving them to order. Murmurs swept the table, but they relented, taking their seats.

Flare swept the room, looking for the faces she was most comfortable with – there was Hound, and next to him, wearing his usual drawn expression, Mirage; towards the front, near Optimus, was Ratchet. To her optics, it seemed to be a packed house. _And where do I get to sit?_ she wondered.

As she stood in the doorway, something decidedly massive brushed past her, knocking her off-balance and slamming her strut-first into the wall before falling in an undignified sprawl on the floor. Grimacing in pain, Flare found herself staring at the largest, most deadly-looking feet she'd ever seen on a mech. The lower leg alone was twice her thickness.

"Way to go, Grimmy!" someone shouted. A low, saurian growl vibrated the air above her crested head, but the foot moved, taking the body with it.

"Here."

With a groan, Flare turned to look up at a pleasant, red-grey mech; the Minibot's lip components twitched in wry amusement and held out his hand. "You might not remember me," he said, gripping her by the wrist and easily hauling her, wings and all, to her feet, "but I'm Windcharger. I pulled you out of the rubble that day."

Try as she might, she couldn't place him. It was for the best, she believed; there was nothing about that day that she wished to remember. "No, I'm sorry, I don't."

"Ah, well, to be expected. C'mon, there's a seat next to me that you can have. Grimlock prefers to stand."

With the optics of the others boring holes into her freshly-dented armor, Solarflare followed Windcharger back to his seat and, unsure, slipped into the one to his left; she struggled a moment until she was able to slip her wings over the chair back. The colossus that was Grimlock, a veritable monster of a mech painted in a dank slate grey that it made her own monochromatic scheme seem brighter by comparison, stumped into a corner behind Optimus.

"You're late, Grimlock," Optimus noted without rancor. Behind him, the mech crossed his trunk-like arms and grunted – the only answer he deemed fit enough to give. Slowly, the Autobot leader shook his head and turned to the assembled crew. "As you know, certain circumstances have brought us a new warrior in the fight against Megatron. I called this meeting for two reasons: the first to remind all of you that Alina –"

"… Solarflare," she interrupted quietly, catching Mirage's sky blue optic and smiling softly at his surprised expression. "I'm … Solarflare."

Optimus took the news with grave solemnity. "Solarflare. Indeed. Let me remind you again that Solarflare's origins are not to be leaked to anyone outside of this community. None of our allies shall know, save Spike, Sparkplug, Carly and Chip."

Next to her, a bold blue mech with a striking red face shifted. "Pardon, Prime," he drawled in a low, urbane tone that rivaled Mirage at his most Elite, "but not even Raoul?"

"I should hardly think that miscreant should even be allowed in here," scoffed a white and red mech with a dour set to his facial plates. "And for that matter, I revoice my earlier opinion on this whole matter – send her to Cybertron! It was foolish to save her in the first place." He turned his head and locked optics with Flare; a jolt shot through her body at his bald-faced words. "She'll only be a burden."

"How dare you!" Mirage roared, throwing back his chair and rising to his full lanky height. Though he was about a dozen Autobots away, the other mech jumped, the horns on his helm flashing an alarming blue.

"Mirage, sit," Optimus commanded quietly. The spy's optics bore murder at his fellow before submitting to Hound's tug on his arm. "Red Alert, you are out of line."

"I should think not," he continued, trying to pull himself together in the aftermath of Mirage's verbal assault. "I'm only thinking of Ark security, Optimus. She would surely compromise it."

There were two black and white mechs at the table; the one with a serene, composed grey face and red chevron shook his head. "Hardly. Not any more than we do by leaving the main bay open."

"Correct, Prowl," Optimus noted. "Now, I will have no more outbursts; you had your say days ago, Red, and you were told then that there is no changing what has happened. As for you, Tracks, Raoul is new to our circle. If, in the appropriate time, he has shown himself trustworthy, we shall consider letting him in."

Optimus' words seemed to appease the mech next to Solarflare, and he nodded his acquiescence. That matter settled, the great red-white-blue mech laid his hands on the table. "If we can get back to the matter at hand, I would like all of you to introduce yourself to Solarflare." And he nodded at the chevron'd black and white at his right to start. Solarflare leaned over the table, catching the face and name of each Autobot as they identified themselves, committing it to memory.

Slowly, Optimus nodded and rose as the round came to a conclusion. "Solarflare, would you stand and come to me?"

Her optic shutters winking, Flare stared back, not expecting to get up and say anything. Hesitantly, she pushed her chair back, and, with a flick of her wings to resettle them, walked to the front of the table. With flickered glances at Hound and Mirage, she looked up into the wise optics of Optimus Prime.

"Solarflare," the great mech intoned, "do you swear before Primus to uphold the code of the Autobots, to defend our laws and to protect those weaker than you?"

_I give away the last of my humanity with a single word_, she reflected, watching in her mind's eye as her family began to fade from view. _From now on, I am one of them, completely, wholly. It is not what I wanted, but it is all I can do_. "Yes."

The large patriotic mech inclined his head. "Do you swear loyalty to me, Optimus Prime, commander of the Autobots?"

"Yes." And inside, something quietly fell away with that one word. Solarflare stood straight, looking only at Optimus and no longer feeling those in the room with them. The first affirmation surprised her – the second did not, and she put all of herself behind it.

"Welcome, Autobot Solarflare," Optimus declared, reaching into a subspace pocket and producing three red symbols. With the utmost dignity, he placed the largest in the direct center of her chestplate. The other two were smaller; Optimus made a motion with his head which she interpreted as a request to turn around. Doing so, she felt him take each wing in his hands and press the emblems on the back.

The actual weight of the decals was next to nothing, but the symbolic weight was enormous. To wear the red logo was a signal to the whole world of what your intentions were, and that you could be counted on to give aid wherever it was needed. The expectations and responsibilities were enormous; she could only hope to live up to them.

_Good-bye, Mom. Until then, Dad, Rich._

------------------------------

"Get up, sweetheart; time to dance with a real mech."

Her vision was flooded with grey and black lines, reminiscent of old television reception. Flare groaned, pushing herself up on her forearms, loathe to leave the form-fitting wide berth in her new quarters. A quick check of her internal chronometer revealed it to be 4AM.

"I said _up_." A thick-fingered hand grabbed her by the upper arm and practically hauled her, wings and all, off the berth. "Decepticons don't attack when it's convenient for you."

"HEY!" she protested, spluttering, legs swinging to gain purchase on the floor. As her vision cleared, she found herself staring at the wide, golden chest of one Autobot Sunstreaker, the vainest psychopath in the galaxy. "How did you get in here?" There were locks on the doors for a reason, she thought sourly, dusting her plating off.

Casually, he let her go and planted his huge yellow fists on his hip plates. "As your hand-to-hand instructor, Prime gave me the codes." There was a wicked grin on his classic facial planes, not lascivious, but definitely not your usual smile.

Scowling, the grey femme stood straight. "It's 4AM – I just got off of training duty with Blaster two hours ago!"

Sunstreaker smirked. "So sorry, darling. But it's time to chug some high grade and get on with it."

Glowering, Flare moved past the Lamborghini and dug around in a cabinet, looking for a cup; grabbing one, she slapped it under her small Energon dispenser and let the pink fuel flow. _Remember your vows to Optimus Prime_, her good angel reminded her in a steady, sweet voice. _They've run you ragged through comm-practice, target-practice, flying lessons … and now combat-practice – but it's necessary._

_Yeah, but what about my brand new parts?_ she countered snarkily, downing the Energon in one gulp. _Take that college days!_

Behind her, Sunstreaker smirked. "Two weeks and you're that low? Are you sure nothing is leaking in there?" He half-bent at the waist, peering intently at her midsection.

"I'm fine," she retorted, tossing the cup into the recycler and crossing her arms over her chest in a habit she'd be long in forgetting. "Can we go?"

"I was waiting for you, sweetie." Stepping aside, the golden warrior pressed the door panel, gesturing for her to go first. "My, we're testy. I guess it comes with a body transfer."

Flare paused. "No, just being in your benign presence," she replied with a saccharine smile. She'd been around the Transformers long enough to know that Sunstreaker ran hot, cold and perverse. Right now he was being playful, but the wrong word could lead to violent repercussions. But the mech merely gave her that spine-crawling grin and indicated the way out.

At this hour, the only sane people up and about were those on night watch and the occasional scout patrol. There had been one major Decepticon scuffle in the two weeks since Solarflare's initiation into the Autobot ranks; during those frightful two days, she'd spent her time with Ratchet in the medbay, running errands and occasionally playing nursebot to the wounded. It was that experience that reminded her how fragile life was, no matter if it came in a package of flesh or trylithium steel. It also allowed her to see how deeply friendships ran between the warriors, of whom she'd only seen one side.

Sunstreaker entered the training room first, flicking on the lights with casual abandon. Flare had only been in here once, and that was to fetch Prowl for Optimus. It was a rather large room – it had to be, to hold a dozen or more Autobots all getting their workouts at the same time. In the center was a roped off sparing ring; to the right and back were several large punching bags, which confused her with their purpose. What metal being needed to build muscle? Then she remembered that her body was not cold steel, but living metal, rife with nodes, neurons and other sensory material.

Lining the walls were several benches and racks holding various non-energy weapons. It was from this rack that Sunstreaker plucked two long blue-grey staffs. Without a warning, he tossed one at her head; gaping, Flare lifted her hands and snatched it in mid-air. Sunstreaker's optics winked appraisingly, but he said nothing. Ducking under the ropes, he waited for her to join him in the ring. Hesitantly, for she had no idea what was about to happen, Flare followed, getting her wings, crest and taloned feet caught up in the tough lines. To her embarrassment, she slipped and fell on her scut, ramming her tailfeathers into the mat and jarring her hind end.

"Smooth," the golden mech laughed, leaning on his staff.

Sourly, Solarflare disentangled herself, using the long practice rod to get her to her feet. Before she had the chance to regain her balance, Sunstreaker lunged at her, striking the area between her neck guard and shoulder strut. With a cry of pain, lights bursting before her optics, Solarflare fell to the ground, the staff rolling away, forgotten.

"Get up," the mech ordered, his feet planted by her nasal ridge. With a low moan, Flare rolled over, staring at him upside-down. This was not going to be fun.

Sunstreaker drilled her all around the ring: backwards and forwards, with and without the staff. He attacked her, goaded her, stood there and let her lash out with the remnants of her energy until she collapsed at his feet, spent.

She lay there, panting, tiny pie charts with low percentages spinning in the lower right-hand corner of her optics. Was there any part on her body that wasn't dented?

"Here."

Shutters fluttering, Flare focused on a long, thin white rod that was currently being waved in front of her face. An ion stick – a type of foodstuff she had come to associate with pretzel sticks, although not as salty. Reaching out, she took it from Sunstreaker's hand and shoved it in her mouth, chewing – though that wasn't necessary, being purely reflex. The stick gave her the much-needed boost, allowing the spinning chart to blink and jack up a few notches.

Sitting up, she looked at her white arms, at the scratches along her thighs and lower legs. Squatting by her side, Sunstreaker leveled a steady gaze. "Your reactions aren't bad," he told her in a rare show of camaraderie that he usually saved for his brother, Sideswipe. "We'll work on that later. Shower off, you smell horrible."

"Thanks," she croaked, grabbing the ropes for support. Tottering a bit, she managed to slip under the ropes without much fuss and wandered to the wash racks. To her initial chagrin, there was no separate facility for femmes, but now that she lacked vital organic components, there wasn't that much to be modest about – considering she was technically naked. Still, she tried to visit the racks when the others were out and about.

There were a few mirrors at the front of the room; Solarflare paused before these, assessing the damage. What she saw was depressive: dents the width of her finger, as deep as an inch in her shoulder struts, which seemed to bear the brunt of Sunstreaker's attacks. Scuffed paint and small chips of armor made up the rest of her wounds. Running her hand over her crest, she was amazed to find that whole. It was something she had come to love about this new body (beside her wings) – it was unique and fit with her avian persona.

With a sigh and a rueful smile, Flare turned to the nearest stall and sat down, letting the warm water flow over her, soothe her body and soul. Ratchet would have a field day when he saw how much she'd been put through – first he'd yell at her for letting Sunstreaker do this to her, then he'd hunt the yellow mech down and threaten him with a plasma scalpel to his head fins the next time he came in wounded. A low purr of amusement vibrated from her vocalizer at the CMO's over-protectiveness.

Checking her chronometer, Flare realized that time was getting short; she needed to cut this luxury in half if she was ever to get some proper recharge in time for her flying lesson with Powerglide that afternoon. Now _that_ was the one thing she always looked forward to – even though the red A-10 was perhaps the most overconfident mech in the building (Sunstreaker notwithstanding).

Giving herself a good once-over with the long-handled brush and soap, Flare rinsed herself off and switched from water to blow-dry. Normally, she'd towel-dry for better results, but as she was in a hurry … it wouldn't kill her to leave a little water behind. It wasn't as if she'd be catching cold anytime soon!

Before she left, she turned off the light and started out into the hall, feeling a little better, if not for the pock-marked armor. To her amazement, someone was clomping down the corridor – a little heavily, if she was any judge of the footfalls. At a little past seven in the morning, it was quite possible that some of the mechs were getting ready to start their morning patrols.

What a surprise she was in for when she spotted Mirage limping down the hallway, touching his right shoulder now and then. One of the tires embedded into his feet appeared to have been blown, which would explain his odd gait; otherwise, he wasn't muddy or dirty.

"Raj?" she called out quietly, leaning on the door well. Caught unaware, which was highly unusual, the Ligier spy slowly turned, lifting his pharaonic head. "Are you okay? Should I get Ratchet?"

A slow, pained smile tugged at his thin lip components. "No, I'm fine, thank you." Then he frowned. "What are you doing up so early?"

He was evading her question. Coming out of the wash room, she walked up to him and tipped her head from side to side, evaluating his injuries. Mirage's facial planes adopted a pained expression, akin to a child being over-fussed by his mother. "Training," she replied succinctly.

"Training with whom?" He reached out with his good arm and touched her dented strut. "Primus – what happened?"

Straightening, she looked him in the optic – gold challenging blue. "I'll tell only if you do."

He laughed, low and wry, rotating his bad arm so that the servos protested and the metal cried out. "Ah, well, had an incident with an eighteen-wheeler. The driver was exhausted and drifted into my lane. Granted, he couldn't see me, but the only way I could save myself was to drive into a ditch. Thus, what you see before you." He arched an inquiring brow ridge – her cue to spill.

"Early sparring with Sunstreaker," she replied as succinctly as he.

The spy's frown only deepened. "I see."

Carefully, she watched his face. Clearly, he was holding back, but he was probably just tired and sore. "Let me walk you to the medbay," she offered, going around to his good side and began to slip her arm through his. To her surprise, he relented.

"To my room," he told her. "I'll see Ratchet after I've had a few hours in darkness."

Quietly, they traversed the halls, up the elevator and to the warriors' quarters. Mirage moved slowly, and she fared no better with her metallic bruises. As they walked, Solarflare found herself thinking back, to the days when she was human and she used to perch on his shoulder or sit by his side – and talk. Those times seemed too far gone, but they were only a few months in the past. Something had changed between them, and she couldn't quite put a talon on it. Her first thought was her intense training schedule, but she was also wondering if his solemnity had to do with her new form. The few glances she stole his way did not meet a reciprocating optic – and her vision was getting pretty accurate these days. She made a mental note to catch Hound and talk with him about just that.

The white-blue mech pointedly came to a halt at the door bearing the glyphs for his name. Gently, he disengaged his arm from hers, and with a small smile and a polite "good-night", left her in the hallway. She caught a slight glimpse of his inner sanctum before the pneumatic door slid shut in her face. Somewhat miffed, she took the stairs to the next level, hers, and promptly fell asleep the moment her body hit the berth.

* * *

Creaking and groaning, Mirage settled himself on his recharging bed. He'd really made a mess of his tire, and his leg by extension, with that stunt. With a sigh, he shut the light off, grabbed the power cord from its hook and jammed it into its receiving port along his side. He needed the extra boost the chord provided to make up for spinning his three wheels in that ditch. Settling himself on his back, he let his optics dim and his cortex wander. 

He really needed to work out whatever block there was regarding Alina-cum-Solarflare. It wasn't fair to her for him to suddenly be cold and unresponsive. But he couldn't tell her how unsettling it was for him to be presented with her in femme form … not with all he'd done in the past with femmes. Truth be told, he didn't really know how to treat a femme as a friend and not as an object to acquire and discard as he wanted. _You thought you lost her once, Mirage of the Towers?_ he chastised, slipping a hand behind his head. _You'll lose her a second time if you don't come to terms with all of this_.

He didn't have much free time at the moment, not with the Decepticon attack a few days ago. His cloaking ability had him ranging far and wide on any whiff they managed to eke out of the rumor mill. Thus far, it seemed as if the 'cons were too busy licking their wounds to cause much trouble for the time being. Still, he figured if he crashed as soon as he returned, he could at least spend some time with her – possibly improving her marksmanship (not that Prowl was a poor teacher, but he wasn't _Mirage_).

So many things …

Wearily, Mirage's system began to shut him down and he fell into a deep recharge with the images of grey feathers floating before his optics.


	11. Life Unexpected

**Chapter Eleven  
**Life Unexpected

_I'm so caught up in you  
__Little girl  
__And I never did suspect a thing  
__So caught up in you  
__Little girl  
__That I never wanna get myself free  
__And baby its true  
__You're the one  
__Who caught me, baby you taught me  
__How good it could be  
_.38 Special, "Caught up in You"

How to describe the transformation sequence? The best Flare could come up with, when asked about it by Spike, was that you took your awareness and stuffed it somewhere else. In her case, she exchanged the sensation of arms for those of her wings, which were usually secondary. Her first experience with transforming was frightful, especially with all the moving, shifting and rotating body parts. After a while, she got the hang of it: the rotating of her lower torso, the folding of her arms, the lowering of her head into her chest; the wrap-around plate and the eagle head that snapped down. Viewing the world from behind diamond-shaped golden optics was not that different from the ones she usually had. Her center of gravity was different, being balanced on clawed feet and decidedly lower to the ground.

But, by God – how she loved to fly!

Getting coordinated was a mass of bumps, bruises and more than one fractured limb, but with Powerglide's enthusiastic persistence, he soon had her chucking herself off the top of Mt. St. Hillary only to transform in mid-air. Now that little stunt caused quite the stir between the jet and Ratchet, who had him up against the wall for putting her spark in danger. But it was Flare herself who insisted that she needed to learn how to pull it off, even though she liked the idea no better than he did. "What if I'm climbing and I fall? Do you just want me hope for the best?"

Begrudgingly, Ratchet conceded to her insane logic, and the challenges continued, though not as often.

One day, some two months following her confirmation, after a session with Powerglide that had her doing barrel rolls and somersaults, Solarflare decided to spend what remained of her free time perched on one of the great orange boosters. She'd taken to doing this for a while now, just to watch the scout crews come in for the night. Red Alert had protested profusely, claiming that she was obstructing the cameras and created a target for Decepticon laser fire. Optimus Prime and Prowl mulled this over and told the security director to stuff it – though not in those words.

She perched on the lip of the center booster, swinging her legs idly, watching the steam curl from her heated armor in the crisp January air. The patrols wouldn't be back until late tonight; there was a rumor going around that Megatron was thinking about making a move on a new breed of generators in upper Washington. At this moment, Trailbreaker, Hound, Gears and Skyfire were camping there, keeping a steady optic on the facility. She'd relayed several messages from them to Optimus over the last week.

Comm duty. That in of itself was interesting. With Blaster as her tutor, she found herself immersed in a world of voices all over the airwaves. It was daunting at first, and she'd almost lost her mind among the patterns, but Blaster had been able to save her skidplate each time – though, it left her sorely drained. Slowly, she was learning to isolate parts of her consciousness (how, she didn't quite know) and carry on several conversations, or tasks, at once. Blaster was impressed, and left her to her own devices – which allowed him to focus on the finer frequencies, ones she could not reach and had not been built for. Ones that the Decepticons would be using to ferry information back and forth.

"It's getting cold, little one; surely you don't want your circuits to freeze?"

Pulled from her reverie, Solarflare parted her knees and looked down over the booster to see Mirage standing directly underneath. The spy was carrying some overlong tube under one arm and a tripod in the other.

"Oh, I don't think there's frost on my butt just yet," she called down with a chuckle. "Whatcha got there?" It was unusual to see Mirage carting around anything but his rifle unless the situation called for him to shift some muscle.

"Something for you. Come down and see."

Flare's crest perked in curiosity. They had had minimal time to talk over the past couple of weeks, each with their own agenda to attend. Sometimes, it was a quick chat over morning Energon, but even then Mirage seemed as guarded as he had been when she first began hanging around the Ark. Too bad Hound wasn't in the area. Still, this afternoon, the spy appeared to have regained some of his old affability.

Extending her legs so that her feet pointed out, Flare lifted herself up and off the booster. With a little shift of her hydraulics, she pushed herself off, falling about a hundred feet or so downwards, her wings stretched out to slow her descent. Mirage's shocked look was well-worth the effort as she landed gracefully at his feet.

"Is that a cannon?" she queried, craning her neck to get a better look at the odd contraption he held.

"Of a sort," he replied, quickly regaining his composure. "I had Wheeljack cobble it together for me the other day. I thought you could use a little target practice."

Puzzled, she peered at the tube again. "You're not still upset that Prowl taught me how to fire?"

There it was, that slow smile. "No. Not when I can take the time to fix his mistakes." And the grin became wider, almost mischievous. "Actually, this is for altmode practice. Later, I want to work with you on your pistol and wrist-guns."

Reflexively, Solarflare turned her forearm over and cocked the panel on the top back. The whole plate that made up her upper forearm lifted with a slight hydraulic whine, revealing the tri-barreled fire pellet gun underneath. Just as quickly, she settled the panel back into place. "What are you going make me do?"

"Follow me."

He led her down the shale slope and into the shooting range. While she watched, he set up the cannon and tripod. As he worked, she heard footsteps behind her and turned to see Bumblebee and Spike ambling towards them. Spike was grinning from ear to ear and waved; with a smile, Solarflare waved back. "Hi!"

Mirage turned at her greeting; was it her imagination, or was he frowning? She couldn't tell for certain, because he ducked his head and went back to work. "Hiya, Flare!" Spike called out, coming to a stop with Bumblebee beside her. "What're you up to?"

"Mirage had Wheeljack build me a cannon to help with target practice."

Frowning with concentration, the little yellow Minibot peered at the construct. "What does it fire?"

"Boulders." Mirage stood and dusted himself off. "Why don't you two make yourself useful and collect some. All different sizes."

Spike brightened and immediately sprinted off, Bumblebee ambling along at a much leisurely pace. While the boys went to town among the rock field, Solarflare turned to the Ligier. "Is something wrong?"

He looked up, brow ridges raised. "No. Why?"

Folding her arms, she watched Spike scurrying around and almost crush his foot under a particularly large rock. "You seemed a little testy with Spike there."

Mirage straightened, paused. "Well," he began, seeming to choose his words carefully, "I assumed we'd be alone."

Instantly, her heart softened. "You miss me, don't you?"

There was a stiffening of his shoulder plates at her words. Flare watched him, wondering if she'd somehow said the wrong thing. Rubbing the back of his neck in a decidedly human manner, Mirage shook his head. "I do," he slowly admitted. "It was … different when you were human, somehow."

_A lot of things were different when I was human_, she reflected quietly, fanning her wings in an effort to collect her thoughts. She opened her mouth to tell him that, when Bumblebee and Spike came jogging up with their first armloads. The spy perused them and selected a small rock, about the size of her spread hand.

"Transform, Flare. Let's see how this goes."

What chance for a meaningful conversation was lost in the ensuing practice. Mirage stayed on the ground while she winged overhead, zooming after – and crushing with her talons – each boulder he fired her way. They were never in the same place; some he set high, others were lobbed low, forcing her to fold her wings and add power to her boosters. Others were shot in quick succession, sometimes in a line, some spread out.

Poor Spike and Bumblebee were sent out time after time to grab more ammunition. Flare felt sorry for them, even called down to the Minibot that they could leave if they wanted to; but to her surprise, he relayed that they were having too much fun.

As darkness began to settle over the Ark, and the puffs from Spike's breath grew longer and larger, Mirage called a halt to the exercise. Bumblebee helped the Ligier pack the cannon away while Flare tallied her successes. Out of over two hundred lobbed her way, she'd managed to pulverize almost sixty-percent. Not bad for her first time, she congratulated.

"How's school, Spike?" she asked the teenager as they walked back to the Ark proper.

"Not bad, I just wish you had more time to help me with my English."

The grey femme laughed. "Sorry I never got to help you finish that other project."

Spike grinned lopsidedly and shrugged. "It's okay. Hound helped a little."

They parted in the main bay: Flare to the berthing level, Mirage, Bumblebee and Spike somewhere else. The avian femme felt quite proud of herself for what she'd accomplished. It'd been a long time since she felt content about her place in society. After two months as an Autobot, things were finally beginning to mesh. She considered herself part of the team, and surprisingly, so did they.

"Hey, babydoll!"

Flare paused at the elevator, her hand on the panel; Jazz, the other black and white mech in the Ark, bumped against her playfully, his visored face split in its usual infectious grin. Unlike Prowl, this monochromatic Autobot was nothing but fun; Flare always liked to be in his presence. He flattered her outrageously, and she in turn.

"A few of us are gonna hang out in th' rec room. Wanna come?"

"And do what?"

Jazz laughed. "Whatever y'wanna do, sweetheart. Me'n'Smokescreen are gonna set up a poker game. You play?"

Solarflare leaned up against the wall and grinned, shaking her head. "No, I never learned."

"Well, I'll tell ya what – Sunny's cooked himself up a new batch o' high grade. You keep our glasses full an' I'll teach ya as we go along. How's that?"

Though she was tired, she couldn't escape the gravitational pull of Jazz's smile. "All right; you got me."

"Awesome. Now, you just latch that delicate little hand around ol' Jazz's arm and we'll arrive in style."

It was amazing to feel all of her exhaustion evaporate once the game got underway. The Porsche, Sunstreaker, Smokescreen, Sideswipe and Wheeljack sat around a table in the middle of the rec room, a pack of oversized cards in their hands. For "good luck", or so Jazz claimed, he had the femme hang over his shoulders so she could watch what cards he played. This, of course, elicited catcalls from Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, who tried to ply her with high grade so that she would grace their noble forms for a while. Solarflare merely laughed and refilled their mugs before returning to Jazz's side.

As the night wore on and the mechs subsequently became more and more drunk, the stories they told grew increasingly raunchier in the Cybertronian sense. Somehow, Flare found herself perched on Jazz's lap, drinking and laughing outrageously at the faces Sunstreaker was making as he told a story of how he and Sideswipe had once duct taped Prowl to the ceiling of his office.

"An' then – an' then –" the golden Lambo recounted dramatically, his malleable facial plates screwed up in a wicked parody of Prowl's austere mien, "ol' Prowl woke up. He wuz so rippin' tha' shook 'imself loose and fell wi' a biiiiiiiiig SPLAT on th' floor. Poof! Duct tape all ova th' place. An' there's Prowl … he couldn't move … he'd stuck 'imself t'gether! Whaaa!" Slamming his drink on the table, Sunstreaker held out both his arms, waving them around as if they'd been cuffed together.

The table broke out into big belly laughs; Wheeljack was so drunk by then that he fell over and stayed on the floor, his earbulbs pink. Flare laughed so hard that she spilled her drink over Jazz's lap, but the saboteur was too far gone to give a whit.

Sunstreaker noticed and tried once more to entice her to grace him with her presence. "C'mere baby; I need th' shower better'n'Jazz does …"

Giggling until her servos hurt, Solarflare shook her head. "Nuh-uh," she chastised, slurring her words and wiggling a taloned finger at the Lamborghini.

"Pweeeeeeeeeease?" Sunstreaker leaned his elbows on the table and fluttered his optic shutters, pursing his lips in an outrageous manner.

It was all too much. Flare howled in glee – and discharged her eye-lasers, right into Sunstreaker's shoulder. The blast was low-powered because she was still working on her aim, but as drunk as he was, Sunstreaker went head over skidplate, still laughing despite the burn-mark on his golden hide.

"WHOA!" Sideswipe hooted, pounding the table in surprise. "Baby, hit me!"

Shaking his head, Smokescreen began picking up the discarded poker game and stuffing his credits into subspace. "Well, gentlemechs and femme," he pronounced clearly, for he had only had a few drinks, "I think it's time to call it a night."

"Awr, Smokie, where's your sense of adventure?" the red Lambo wheedled, prodding his brother with one foot. The blue car merely smiled.

"On the floor with Sunstreaker and Wheeljack, who seems to be snoring …" There was a pause, and sure enough, a low, rasping sound was issuing from the vocalizer slits in the inventor's wrap-around mask. "C'mon, we can do this another night. You two have patrol in the morning."

Sideswipe made a rude noise that seemed like it was coming from the top of his helm-horns. Jazz only chuckled and gently lifted Flare from his wet lap. "Smokie's righ'," the Porsche conceded. "Let's wrap 'er up. Y'all clean an' I'll escort th' lovely Miss Flare t' 'er quarters."

" 's fine wi' me," Sunstreaker mumbled from his prone position on the tiled floor. "Jus' give me a kiss g'night an' I'll be happy."

Tottering on her oversized feet, the high grade numbing all reason, Flare wandered over to where the Lamborghini lay and gave him a small peck on his right vent. The golden warrior hooted. "Better watch it, baby, or I'll start stalkin' ya fer more." With a giggle, Flare patted his cheek and slowly wound her way back to Jazz.

"You wish, Sunshine."

"Oh, I wish, baby," he called after her as Smokescreen began wiping the table clean. "An' I bet ol' In-vis-ib-le wishes he'd gotten some of you, too …"

Too intoxicated to take in the full meaning of Sunstreaker's drunken proclamation, Solarflare leaned on Jazz' arm, the saboteur, while still quite plastered, was perhaps the most sober of them all, baring Smokescreen. Together, they navigated the intricate maze that the Ark halls had become, riding up one too many levels and then coming back down when they realized they had gone up to the bridge. Jazz gallantly dropped her off at her door, pinched her tailfeathers and danced on down the way they'd come.

Breathless, Flare missed her combination twice before getting it right. She stumbled through the entrance and had enough strength in her to shut it before falling dead into recharge on the floor.

* * *

The night was not been kind to Mirage. After parting company from the grey avian femme, he and Bumblebee took the boulder cannon back to Wheeljack's lab; the inventor was not in residence, which was a good thing, considering how many times he asked for volunteers for his outrageous experiments. Wise mechs always avoided stopping in unless they wanted to walk away with burnt digits or worse, a hole in their armor from a small, accidental chemical explosion. The yellow Minibot said his goodnights and went off to do some late-night homework with Spike. Mirage shook his head; his fellow Autobots coddled that boy far too much, giving him ideas and more help than they should with his schoolwork. 

Leaving a note for Wheeljack as to how to improve the trajectory of the construct, Mirage gently faded out, as he was wont to do as the hours dwindled. Having nothing better to do, he walked up and down the various levels of the Ark, not so much as eavesdropping (he never did that unless it was a matter of business) as trying to organize his thoughts. He just so happened to pass by the rec room and was in time to hear Sunstreaker's comment.

The Ligier threw himself against the wall as Jazz and Solarflare stumbled out, chattering drunkenly to each other. Shuttering his invisible optics, Mirage dropped his head to his chest, groaning.

"Y'think she'd want any of us?" he heard Sideswipe slur to his brother.

"If you ask me," Smokescreen commented lazily, "I don't think she sees any of us in that way. Aside from Astoria and that alien Seaspray hung out with, what human views our metallic structure as desirable?"

Sunstreaker made a rude noise. "No one asked ya, skid-face. She's too grey for my tastes, an' as for Invisible … He's always followin' her around like some turbohound lookin' for a bowl of oil. I thought he was bad enough when she was pink, but now …"

_You're better than this_, Mirage told himself, but still, he listened with an ever-tightening chest to their insults.

"Bah," Sideswipe scoffed, "you'd do a lamppost if it had an interface port …"

Something clattered and crashed as the yellow twin went after the red one for his remark. Mirage took the opportunity to get to his quarters before he heard anything more. Once the door was shut, he sat on his berth, looking around at the remnants of his former Tower life: battered hunting trophies, holograms of the parties he'd attended; a few readers of old Cybertronian poetry, their authors long since turned to scrap in Megatron's wake lined the top of his desk.

This was all he had, all of what remained of who he had been. Of a life and a people buried under their own hubris. As he stared at these remnants of former glories, he was no longer filled with pride; instead, a deep sadness filled him. It was not the homesickness that had plagued him these past three years, but a different kind of hollowness. It was as if these trophies no longer meant as much as they had; as if he wanted and yearned for something else.

Some unknown force directed his hand to the top drawer of his desk. Inside were several Polaroids and a hologram. He remembered the Polaroids – they were from that time in the park, when he had suddenly, and uncharacteristically, lifted the then-Alina from her backyard and went strolling in the darkness. She had found these in that filth-human's den after Mirage had sent him on his way. She'd subsequently given him a half-dozen, while she kept the others. Idly, Mirage ran his slim black thumb over the edge of the Polaroids and tucked them back into the top drawer before pulling out the hologram. Hound had taken it, somehow without the spy noticing: there he was, leaning up against the rock of Mt. St. Hillary, pointing at something over the clear horizon; Alina was perched on his shoulder, her head pressed against his.

In a fit of emotion, Mirage chucked the hologram onto the floor, watching it clatter and spin, the lights flickering in distress. _What are you doing?_ he cried inside. _What on Cybertron are you thinking? She's not for you – you would never know how to treat her right. All you know is how to use and discard. It's just as they said … she doesn't see any of us in the way she would a human male. There's no point in trying. Be grateful that she's still around and not gone, like that pile of rotting flesh in the coffin you and Hound said good-bye to. You have something you never had in your whole life … don't waste it, don't push it away with these stupid thoughts._

_You can't have her … let someone who can give her what she needs …_

He couldn't deny the urges that pushed him to seek her company, to snap and snarl at Spike and Bumblebee when all they wanted to do was help. Did she mean more to him now that she was a femme and not a human woman? Certainly, he didn't find himself wanting her when she was no larger than his forearm …

But, he _did_ want her – her company, her words, her mere presence. She took away his sadness, his loneliness, his pain – all without ever knowing what an impact she was making on his cold spark.

_You can yearn for her all you want_, he snapped at himself, _but face the truth – this time, you can't have what you want. No amount of credits will buy her attention. She's an Autobot now, with responsibilities and duties, as you have._

And, perhaps, that's what confused him the most. She was becoming _one_ with her new body and thus needed less and less aid from those around her – especially him. When she moved, it was with a grace he'd never seen in a Tower-born femme – a confidence and acceptance of her situation and her place within the Ark hierarchy. No more hitches, no more tangling of the wings in door wells and around corners. It was as if Alina-the-human no longer existed. Mirage sincerely doubted he could cast off his former self for a human body if the tables were turned.

_Recharge_, his internal system insisted, and reinforced the command with a chart in the lower right-hand corner of his optics. With a ragged sigh, the Ligier reached down and scraped the hologram off the floor, turning it around to see if there was any permanent damage before slipping it back into the drawer. Turning off the light, he stretched out on his berth and slowly shut down.

_**Mirage** …_

_Light, soft hands touched his cheek; the Ligier moaned and turned his head to see a small, raven-haired woman perched by his side. " … Alina?"_

_She didn't answer, just continued to let her hand run up and down the side of his face. Optic shutters fluttering, he tried to reach out and take her fingers away – but he couldn't move. Trapped in his own body, he watched as her features shifted, stretched, became more angled – grey and black and white. Luminous golden optics winked coyly in the darkness._

_**Mirage** …_

_"I can't love you," he told the image. "I can't … I can't give you anything. I don't know how …"_

_**Mirage**._

_**Mirage.**_

_**Raj** …_

The Ligier jolted into awareness, arms flailing. One hand hit the nightstand, the other scraping along the wall. Sensitive armor tingled in places he'd long forgotten during the war. "I can't …" he gasped, "I can't …"

Again, he tried to slip into darkness, only to be haunted by ghost wings, golden suns, and a shadow with large, pointed ears. Needless to say, it was not a pleasant night.


	12. Fate and Proclamation

**Chapter Twelve  
**Fate and Proclamation

_So wild, standing there, with her hands in her hair  
__I can't help remember just where she touched me  
__There's still no face here in her place  
__So cool, she was like jazz on a summers day  
__Music, high and sweet, then she just blew away  
__Now she can't be that warm with the wind in her arms_

_Valerie, call on me – call on me, Valerie  
__Come and see me – I'm the same boy I used to be  
_Steve Winwood, "Valerie"

"Flare." Pause. "Flare."

She couldn't hear Blaster, not with the information streaming past her optics. The lines were very busy because just the other day, the Decepticons decided to hold a meeting in Portland and left a nice crater as proof. Most of the calls she switched to their automotive answering system, which in turn directed them to their local authorities. The rest of the calls she took in succession, one after another, after another until she had enough and switched everything over to the auto-system which would log their complaints and give her something to respond to at her next shift.

Gradually, she began to realize that there was someone shaking her strut. Slowly, she pulled herself from the comm's innards, shutting down the portals one by one until she was safely back inside her own mind. Pulling the wire that connected her to her console, she let it retract back into her neck. "Yes?"

Blaster merely gave her a wan smile. She knew; it was tiring, but that was how she operated. Pulling her plug was out of the question, as they had found out the first time they'd thought she'd lost herself in virtual reality. Solarflare grimaced at the memory; spitting sparks from her mouth was the last thing she wanted to be doing – not to mention the massive headache that followed an abrupt disconnection.

"Yes?"

"Prime wants to see you on the bridge. He's got a mission for you."

Surprise drew back the top-most feather on her crest. "Me? I don't … go out …?"

Blaster laughed. "Sooner or later, darlin', we all go out."

"Hmph," she muttered, confused. Apparently she just wasn't a glorified telephone operator after all! "The bridge, you said?" The boxy red and gold mech nodded. "Do you know what for?"

"Well, he's got Hound with him, so I'm assuming you're off for patrol."

That perked her right up. Patrol meant stretching her wings and not sitting around playing nursebot to an angry human population. "I'm on it!" Powering down her console, Solarflare spun around in her chair and bounded out the door, not seeing the rueful look on Blaster's facial planes as she did.

Teletraan-1 was not located far from the ruined bridge – rather, it was only a level below the main section of the Ark. Flare knew that she should possibly tone down her enthusiasm because patrol was not a game, rather, it was a serious duty. Still, she couldn't believe that she was finally getting sent out after all this time. She was beginning to feel like the Ark secretary – and she'd had enough of that life when she'd been human.

The grey femme managed to slow her gait a few feet before the wide double bridge doors. Politely, she pressed the chime set into the left-hand panel and waited for the doors to open. Optimus, Prowl and Hound were the only ones on the bridge; Hound was in the middle of displaying a large hologram of a forest. Only Optimus broke contact with the image to motion her over. Quietly, she took up position on the last point of their little compass and tried to follow Hound's explanation of the terrain.

"… and that's about it, Prime," the tracker concluded. "I've been listening to the local police stations and they have had numerous calls about unexplained activity late at night. Citizens are claiming alien activity."

Prowl grunted, folding his arms. "Alien would be the correct term," the tactician noted wryly. "But where do the Decepticons come in?"

Hound spun the image of the woods around. "Here. I haven't been able to penetrate the thickest parts …" And he turned his head to grin at the grey femme. "That's where Solarflare comes in. I've been able to estimate the approximate location of the silvery object most of the human callers described, but I'm a bit too bulky to go further."

Flare pursed her lips. "You don't think my wings'll get in the way?"

Prowl rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You wouldn't have to transform; rather, I can see you entering the thinnest area and relaying information from there."

The suggestion was a rather simple one, but Flare had her reservations; she wasn't exactly a lightweight anymore, and any object that weighed as much as she did had no chance in Hell of perching on such thin branches.

"Did Powerglide teach you anything else besides how to throw yourself off a cliff top?" the tactician queried, his vocalizer slightly judgmental when she voiced her concerns.

"Such as?" she countered respectfully, glancing at Optimus for some kind of intervention. However, the Prime seemed all too content to let his soldiers bicker; if he had an opinion, he'd give it when he thought it pertinent.

"I'm assuming you can latch onto things with those talons of yours," he continued, gesturing towards her overlarge pyramidal legs. "I was thinking that you could shimmy down the trunks sideways. I'm fairly certain the hardwoods in this park can take it."

The mental image of a cast-iron eagle doing the two-step down an oak tree was ludicrous. "I'm an eagle, Prowl – not a parrot."

Finally, Optimus spread his hands, bringing the small meeting to order. "This is what I believe we can do: Solarflare, take the coordinates that Hound will relay to you and see if you can find an opening in the forest. Enter there and make your way to the source."

"But what about an exit strategy?" Prowl persisted. "If she gets stuck in the thickest parts …"

"There's always blasting myself out," she suggested, mentally going over what she could do to make things go as smoothly as possible. There was the possibility that she could hang onto the higher branches without snapping them and trapping herself in a living cage. However, she just might have to find a way to transform and distribute that weight more evenly. It was a good thing her body was no longer flesh and bone – a torso that could rotate a perfect three-sixty was far more forgiving. Still, there were limitations in her steel structure: wires, servos and other pieces could only bend so far before snapping.

"We will try to avoid any permanent damage to the woods," Optimus warned, "but if it is a last resort, I authorize such a maneuver. Any questions?" Heads shook around the small circle; with that, Optimus dismissed Hound and Solarflare. The tracker shut down his hologram and together, they left the bridge, with Prowl and Optimus talking amongst themselves.

"Do we have any idea what this thing could be?" she asked the green Jeep as they left the Ark.

"Unfortunately not. That's why we're going to investigate. Prime was going to have Bumblebee come with me, but I suggested that you come instead."

"Why?"

The tracker paused at the main bay entrance and smiled at her. "Because, I've seen you sit at that console too many times. Optimus agreed that you needed to be included on more missions. I suppose he was just trying to protect you."

The admission was puzzling. "Aren't I an Autobot?" she asked. "Why the special treatment?"

Hound merely shrugged. "Well, if we get through this in one piece, I'm sure you'll be going on more."

Still unsatisfied, Solarflare pushed her irritation to the side as Hound transformed and sped off. She quickly followed, reveling in the crisp chill of late winter. Here in the desert, it did not snow, but it sure as hell got cold, and she soon found the icy air slowing her motions, though the space around her boosters certainly did not lack for warmth. Rising higher into the sky, she kept one slitted optic on Hound's forest green form and the other among the thin clouds. Gone were the days of complacence; she had to be on alert now, for at any moment, a Seeker or contingent of Decepticons could break upon them – and where would she be?

Being grey did have its advantages; more than once, Hound asked her to slip him a tight pulse so he could keep track of where she was. Other than the odd passenger jet, the skies seemed to be calm. However, just to be on the safe side, she did several wingovers, slipping from stream to stream, rising and falling among the various levels of air, checking for activity.

About an hour later, they came up to the small forest outside the main part of Portland. It was a park, really, but Flare had long forgotten the name, even when she'd been human. Due to her sensitive optics, she caught sight of the verdant tips long before Hound had turned off the highway. This allowed her to perform a cursory sweep of the area and to report down to the tracker that she couldn't see anything out of the ordinary – yet.

"_All right, Flare,"_ the Jeep relayed, _"it's about twenty meters in. I'm going to swing over to the parking lot and wait there."_

"_Gotcha."_ A quick check below her grey belly showed the tracker turning on his holographic driver. He pulled into the lot and made his image walk over to the nearest restroom and seemingly enter it – but that was another trick, for the door never actually opened. Hound was thus left to idle without being harassed as a driverless car.

Flare spun among the clouds, moving the requisite twenty meters into the tree line. She kept high, pinions spread to slow her turns as she checked for movement, any movement – be it Decepticon, human or animal. Her keen optics caught sight of the odd squirrel, but for those chattering rodents, there didn't seem to be anything else. _"I'm going to circle a little wider,"_ she told Hound. Assent flowed along the commlink and she opened up her search pattern.

On her second pass, the weak sunlight glimmered off of something decidedly metallic. Instantly, Flare zoomed in on it, trying to break through the thick criss-cross of branches and needles. _"I see … a box, I think. There's something stacked atop it – a bucket? I'm not sure, I need to go lower."_

"_Is it moving?"_

"_No. It's just sitting there,"_ she replied.

"_I wish I could see it,"_ the tracker half-muttered to himself. _"Go ahead."_

Dropping from the concealing clouds, Solarflare spread her pinions, tipping her boosters down, letting the flaming propulsion ease her into the depths of the woods. Like a grey angel descending from Heaven, the avian femme slipped into an open patch of forest, cutting her boosters by half, then half again, so as not to burn the trees around her with blue-white flame. Greenery enveloped her, small, whiplike branches snapped against her thick chestplate and into the corners of her optics. Finally, she cut all power and dropped like a stone bird through the foliage. Keeping an optic on the area beneath her taloned feet, she scrabbled for any purchase, finally thrusting her legs out in an avian split, catching one trunk in each foot. Wood groaned, bark peeled, and Solarflare continued to slide down.

"Oohhhh …" she moaned, jamming her wing joints down and out to slow her fall. Pine needles, hundreds of them, rained down on her head, worming their way into the fine cracks and crevices in her plating.

Finally, she came to a rest half-way down the trunks where the branches were thicker. Gauging the limb sitting right under her bobbing tailfeathers, Flare wondered how she was going to get _down_, let alone perch.

_Maybe … maybe if I push off with my left wing, I can get my foot down_, she pondered, swinging her head about, clacking her beak in thought. It just might work; the momentum would allow her to grab onto the other truck with her wing. Clenching her talons about the right-hand trunk, she shoved off from the left-hand tree. Quickly, she brought her other foot down and wrapped the steel claws about the limb; in the same moment, the other leg came down.

There was silence as Flare waited a beat of her Energon pump, waiting, waiting … waiting for the limb to snap. There was a low, earthshaking groan as the ancient oak shook, bent slightly to the left from her weight. What leaves had not fallen in autumn rained on her head, along with more pine needles. Fastidiously, Flare turned her head and preened what little she could get from the junction of wing and back plate. Old sap stuck some of the little green-brown devils on the top of her beak, which prompted her to try and scrape them off on the oak's beaten bark.

"Ugh," she muttered, clacking in disgust. _"Hound, I'm in. Anything out there?"_

"_All's quiet, Flare. Do you see it?"_

Peering past the winter-bruised bark, she slowly zoomed her vision down and out. _"Not yet,"_ she reported. _"I'm moving down."_ But the _how_ was another matter. Prowl had been correct in assuming that she would get stuck; maneuverability was almost nil here. Gauging the tightness of the trees, Solarflare made the decision to transform.

Slowly, she rotated her legs and elongated her torso. Her wings protested, grinding up against the trunks around her as they lifted to allow her chestplate room to slide back and tuck under the eagle's head. The cloying aroma of sap filled her olfactory senses as she scrabbled to regain her perch, locking her talons into the trunk of the tree in which she sat. Smaller branches snapped, their cries echoing.

_Shit!_ Flare darted about, stretching her senses to their fullest. If any Decepticon lay beyond, he'd've been a fool not to hear that. Yet, all that came back to her was silence.

Slowly, painfully and full of needles and sap, Solarflare crawled across the middle of the forest, feeling much maligned about the situation as a whole. Her boosters weren't really wired for basemode flight; if she had the fortune to get trapped by Decepticons, the probability blasting out of here as she stood now was considerably low. _Hound said twenty meters … I've gone in about thirty_, she murmured, casting her far-seeking optics all over.

Just as she was about to lower herself another level, she caught a glimmer. _"Hound, I think I have it,"_ she whispered on a tight beam.

"_What do you see?"_

"_Nothing at the moment. I need to get closer. No sign of foul play as of yet."_

"_Be careful, Flare. Mirage'll have my gear shaft for target practice …"_

"_Mirage worries about me too much,"_ she grumbled, a little more acerbic than she had intended. Hound wisely remained quiet about that comment.

Hooking her talons under her, Flare swung down, unlatching her foot talons, feeling around for the next limb. It snapped as soon as her full weight was placed on it, dropping her to the forest floor amidst a clatter and crash of beams, branches and the odd bird's nest. "Owww …"

"_What happened?"_ Hound demanded.

"_I fell on my aft, that's all,"_ she told him, rising and dusting off what little she could. _"Ah … there it is."_

"… _Flare …"_

"_Shhhh."_ The grey femme palmed her purple energy pistol from its holster on her right hip, praying to whatever god was watching out for her now that she shifted bodies that there were no Decepticons.

A small sapling, too confined to ever have a shot at growing as tall as the trees around it, stood in her way. Pushing its supple length aside, Solarflare peered down at the cause of the problem: it was a large silver box – possibly a toolbox – with a purple shape painted on one side. A bucket with two holes drilled into it for eyes sat atop. Peering about, Flare holstered her gun, cocking her right wrist unit instead. Gingerly, she plucked the bucket from the box and took a peek: two flashlights, rigged together and duct taped to the top. With a wry twist of her lip components, she set it aside and poked through the box: beer, most of it gone.

"_Hound,"_ she called out, _"it's fake."_

"_What do you mean?"_ he asked, sounding fairly relieved.

"_Some city kids must've put this out here as a way to hide beer from their parents. They rigged two flashlights to a bucket, but it seems the batteries died. I think they were going for the 'Megatron' look."_

"_Well, that explains the lights and the odd sounds,"_ he murmured. _"Very well, we'll report this to Prime."_

"_I'm gonna string this up so the little deadheads think twice about scaring people so that they can party."_

Hound chuckled. _"Hurry up, Flare, I don't want to stay out here any longer. We're near the crater from the other day."_

"_Gotcha,"_ she affirmed, using some ingenuity to place the tool box high above the ground, where no kid without a really long ladder would be able to reach. She then took the bucket and crushed it between her foot and the ground as a reminder, drawing a happy face in the top with her claw. The Decepticons shouldn't be emulated, she snorted, looking up through the thick foliage. Every person in the world should know that by now … but, apparently, some chose to remain oblivious and live in a fantasy realm.

Anyway. Flare gave the paper-thin bucket one last glance before gauging her exit. There were few hardwoods here, only the softer pines; that didn't bode well for her. Pines had many branches, but very few that were thick enough for her to balance her obscene weight on.

_Well, I suppose I'll have to shimmy my way up_, she sighed. Once sufficiently high enough, she could, theoretically, shift enough power to her boosters to engage them while in basemode. Wheeljack had never been completely clear on that part of her system. Well, she wasn't equipped to swing like Tarzan, either.

Setting all four sets of talons into the trunks of the nearest trees, Flare set about climbing. The waning daylight was of minute concern, having built-in "headlights" of her own; glowing golden optics provided what little she needed to get by. As she rose higher into the air, she glanced down; these trees probably wouldn't survive the next deep freeze, what with the huge gouges she was putting into them at the moment. The death of such noble forest denizens made her feel a little guilty … but it was either the death of a few or several hundred gone to flame.

Reaching the top proved to be less troublesome than she originally thought. Now all that remained was to balance herself, gymnast-like, between two trees while she tried to figure out how to reroute power to her boosters. She knew she had an internal computer that could be overrode on occasion – usually during extreme circumstances where the mech in question was going to enter stasis but did not want to. Otherwise, there were no specific commands to her body parts that she couldn't give with a thought instead.

Well, it was worth a shot. "Computer," she directed, spread-eagled (pun intended) in the middle of a forest park, "reroute available power to boosters."

There was a chime, followed by a horrible grinding sound. Solarflare grimaced, hoping that she just didn't give herself the Cybertronian equivalent of an ulcer – or worse. Her innards chugged around, sloshing. It wasn't pleasant.

"**Reroute complete. Powering."**

There it was, the subtle hum. Flare could feel power thrumming through her system, oozing through the fuel lines that connected her boosters to her laser core and Energon tank. _Engage_, she ordered.

Bright blue-white flame erupted from her boosters, licking at the delicate, frost-covered bark to either side of her grey body. Scenting burning wood, Flare's brow ridges rose and she wormed deep inside herself for that final push. With a massive grunt, she thrust all power into her boosters and broke free.

Rocketing into the approaching dusk, she twisted in midair, throwing her body into avian mode, all her parts aligning themselves properly. With a shake of her head, she spun on her inner pinion, optics whirling, zooming in to see if there were any flames coming from her exit point. Acrid smoke wafted towards her nares and she dipped low, fanning her wings to hover above the spot; aside from the smoke, her optics could not pinpoint an ember, let alone a spark.

"_Solarflare …"_

"_Just checking to see that I don't burn down Portland, Hound,"_ she called back. _"I'm coming."_ With one last cursory glance, she soared upwards, winging over and down to where Hound was still parked. _"Are you?"_

The tracker chuckled. _"I just finished my report to base. Let's go."_

As Flare gained altitude, she watched as Hound's holographic driver finally exited the lavatory he'd been stuck in for the last hour or so, much to the relief of the park officers who'd apparently been called to check up on him. Hound made his creation wave off any medical attention and run to the Jeep. Hound backed up and sped off, with the grey avian femme following close behind.

While not an extremely exciting mission, Flare did have to admit that she'd worried that the box would have turned out to be some Decepticon construct. _The day will come when you will have to face a D-con_, she murmured, a wave of apprehension hitting her in the Energon pump. _This isn't a game, it's reality._ Hard, tough reality, as she'd found out long ago.

The flight back wasn't as hurried as the way out, so Flare took the time to enjoy the wind blowing past her metallic nares, and to observe the lovely sunset. Presently, she became aware of a distant rumble, a vibration in the air around her. Confused, she lifted her optics towards the clouds above, now mere ghosts in the darkening sky. There was no heaviness that she could discern, a herald of an oncoming storm. The weather reports she had gathered this morning did not speak of snow – or rain, for that matter.

The grey femme started to open a channel to the green tracker when something larger than she in terms of wingspan blew right underneath her belly. The force of the plane's passage threw her head over tailfeathers, spinning her in a gut-wrenching whirl; not long in coming was the sonic boom, which completely disoriented even her complex equilibrium.

"HOUND!"

The mad gyrations flipped her through several cloud layers before her internal system kicked in, forcing her wings wide. Great gouts of core-white flame burst from her boosters as she back-winged, optic sensors rolling, just in time to focus in on the purple logos that were streaking towards the tracker.

"_Solarflare to Ark – Decepticon in sector … sector – awr, shit! Sector fifteen!"_ she spat, dismissing the grid overlay with a shake of her head. A response crackled inside her cortex, but she was already streaking through the waning clouds, just in time to hear the first wave of laser fire.

Icy cold air shot through her sensitive nares until she forced the pinholes closed. Diving down, she spotted Hound, transformed in the middle of a rock field, taking shots at the white-red fighter jet above him.

What could she do? A thousand and one thoughts raced through her energize cortex; instinct fought with Sunstreaker's training, commanding her to fire and to flee at the same time. In the end, she decided she was going to try and save the life of her friend.

Bringing her wings close to her body, she poured as much power as she could possibly afford into her boosters. And it was at this point that she lost part of herself to some other entity; beak dropped in a feral scream, she threw all of her sleek weight behind her outstretched talons.

A harsh, piercing cry leapt out of her metallic throat as steel claws punched through thick plating and into the vital circuitry beyond. A wild scream almost as high as hers met the unexpected assault. Eagle and jet barreled nose over tail, whipping around in the air as she bent her head to rip at the plating sticking out between her onyx toes. Sparks jumped into her beak, followed by half-processed Energon, it's slightly-stale taste as rich as blood to her fixated senses.

"GET OFF OF ME! GET OFF OF ME!" her ride squealed, laser fire creating an interesting pattern in the dying sky.

Metal grated on metal as the Decepticon jet tried to transform with her sitting atop its cockpit, black beak plunging into glass and through to the controls. Too busy with the here and now, Flare did not see the half-transformed hand that reached across the nose of the jet; it grabbed her by the nearest wing, blunt black fingers smashing through her largest flight pinion.

PAIN!

Flare threw her head back, whipping her body around to combat this new attack. Beak met finger in a spray of electricity and nodes. Her ride bucked and screamed as the digit came away in her mouth; Flare stumbled, losing her hold on the cockpit. Thrown, she rolled off the edge, spinning in a downward spiral until her wings shot out, pain zipping up her broken pinion, driving her further into her avian mindset. Streaking low to the ground, kicking up dust, dirt and rock particles, she roared towards the nearest peak and latched there to watch the jet crash.

"_SOLARFLARE!"_

"_??!!"_ she shot back, completely confused. Something stocky and green was running towards her, waving an object that glowed.

"Go, Flare! Run!" the creature vocalized, spinning around and firing off several bolts of orange lightning from his grey-black stick. She stared at the pretty spectacle until a burst of purple hit the ledge where she was perched.

Shrieking her surprise, she tumbled down the crumbling rock face to land in a heap of grey and black feathers. Rocks pounded atop of her flat head, knocking her back into her true personality. "Hound!" Shaking the rubble free, she transformed, biting back a cry of pain as her ruined pinion protested the sudden motion.

"Come back here, Autobot!"

Flare turned just in time to see the Decepticon staggering out of the dust; wires dripped over his chest to spit weak sparks onto his odd-looking chest. He had a grey face framed by a squarish helm; thin lips were twisted in an unspeakable snarl, a combination of pain and rage. He lifted both arms and, simultaneously, two long white cannons swung upwards. From their small muzzles burst a long stream of purple laser fire. Hound grabbed her arm in time to avoid the first scattering blows as they rocketed past her wings, smashing with great force into the ruined plateau. Turning as they ran, the tracker fired back, scoring a slight hit on the jet's shoulder strut.

"A femme!" the Decepticon exclaimed through the chaos. "I'll get you for what you did, little Autobot, mark my words! No femme does that to Air Commander Starscream!"

"Well, she did, and she'll do it again!" Flare found herself shouting back as Hound yanked her around a rocky outcropping. The tracker not-so-gracefully threw her up against the wall as he peered around the corner.

"Stay down!" he ordered, firing off a few shots of his own.

Rocks burst overhead as laser fire missed their target; Flare ducked, throwing her hands over her head, her crest flat. She cowered there a moment until Hound gave a deep grunt, staggering backwards, a deep hole sprouting from his right shoulder.

"Hound!" she cried, scrabbling on her hands and knees over to the wounded tracker. Her long-fingered hands flew over the gaping hole, acrid smoke mixed with Energon turned to steam hitting her olfactory sensors hard.

_This is war_, she chanted, trying to push the metal of Hound's shoulder back around the wound to close it. _This is what it is_.

Beneath her hands, Hound coughed. "It's okay, Flare. Just sit me up … help should be coming …" He trailed off as another stream of energy bullets bit into their cover. Wild-optic'd, Flare could only stare over the top of the rock face, waiting for the crazed jet to pounce.

"**_Don't let them pin you!"_** Sunstreaker's voice echoed in her thoughts. **_"If you have no where to go – attack!"_**

Attack!

Forcing all her fear to the back of her mind, Solarflare grit her dental plates and slowly let go of Hound. "Solarflare …" he called out as she walked, hunched over, to the side of the rock formation. Still, she paid him no heed.

Drawing her pistol from its holster, she took a deep breath, feeling the chill air cool her overtaxed system. One more. And FIRE.

She poked her head around the corner, optics zooming in on the area she had already brutally assaulted; sighting down the line as Prowl had taught her, she fired. The pistol kicked back slightly, but not enough to unsteady her. Digging her talons into the rock, she fired again, noting with grim satisfaction as it hit the target.

Twin laser blasts followed in her direction and she threw herself behind cover. Beyond, Hound was forcing himself to his feet, muttering, "Where _is_ everyone?" There was no mistaking the panic in his vocalizer. Though _they_ were two, and Starscream but one Decepticon – where there was one, there were usually more right behind. "Flare, stay … with me."

Ducking another rapid string of lasers, Solarflare scurried to the tracker's side. Grabbing Hound by the upper arm, she turned all her senses outward, listening for some sign that her call had not been tossed to the winds.

Suddenly, there was a roar of engines and a shadow fell across them. Energon pump in her throat, Solarflare whipped around, gun ready, both plates on her arms pulled back. Silhouetted against the waning sun was the crimson body of Sideswipe. "Hiya, lovers! Be with you in a moment. Screamer wants to party!" And then he was gone.

Groaning, Hound pulled against her; shuttling her optics towards the tracker, she looped a hand under his arm, dragging him to his feet. A low, ragged sigh escaped his lip components. Slowly, Flare let him go, watching as he propped himself up against the rock. Free, she holstered her gun and began climbing the rock face, oblivious to Hound's command to stay down.

Peeping over the edge, she saw the twin Lambos locked in a two-on-one battle with the already-damaged Seeker. Suddenly, Sunstreaker made a grab for Starscream's leg; he hooked his beefy hands around the flailing limb and yanked the Decepticon's feet right from under him. With a grin to his brother that was as plain as day to the avian femme, the Lamborghini began to swing Starscream in fast, faster loops. The Seeker jet screamed in a high-pitched wail as he was released, floundering through the air into the night beyond.

As she watched, Sunstreaker motioned to them. "Okay you two. Time to hit it before he comes crawling back. Shoulda broken the other leg … but hey."

"Hound needs help," she called out, glancing at the tracker. "He got hit in the shoulder."

That was enough to send the two loping over to them; Sideswipe scrambled the massive boulder and slipped to the Jeep's side. "Can't keep up with the newbies, eh, buddy?"

Hound coughed, laughed wryly. "Not today, Sides."

The red Twin peered at the wound as Sunstreaker came clomping over the edge. The golden warrior cocked his head at the scene below. "Hey, who ripped Screamer a new waste port? He looked _terrible_." Of course, there was no sympathy in the mech's tone, only a feral grin to match his words.

Flare turned away from where Sideswipe was hauling Hound to his feet. "Me."

Sunstreaker's blue optics flew wide. "You? Slag!" And there was, for the first time, actual wonder. "Not bad, baby. I'll keep those can openers of yours in mind for later." And he winked.

The grey femme rolled her optics, going to Hound's other side to help the tracker home.

* * *

"You – of every mech in this Primus-forsaken ship – should have known better than to attack Starscream!" 

Solarflare kept her optics on the tile, swinging her legs back and forth as Ratchet pounded out the damage the Seeker had inflicted on her main pinion. She wasn't sorry; rather, she was insanely proud. It was all she could do from grinning; Ratchet frowned on the cock-sure.

"I knew that making Sunstreaker your trainer would give you ideas – and did anyone listen to me? No, of course not." The CMO gave the black pinion several hard raps with the large rubber mallet and applied a light touch with a blowtorch. Satisfied, he set his tools aside and turned with the pinion in his left hand. "You listen to me, girl," he whispered as he pulled on her wing to reset the metal feather, "don't let this first win get to your head. I've seen too many greenies get terminated because of an easy victory."

Flare's mental smile died on her imaginary lips at Ratchet's fierce words. Slowly, she turned her head and looked at the medic sideways. "I won't, I promise." And she meant it this time. War was not a game, she reminded herself. There were consequences and precious lives at stake.

Ratchet rammed the pinion home, swiping the gleaming onyx with an oiled rag. "I know. At least I can be secure in that knowledge. With the rest of these rust-heads …" He needn't finish his sentence. "Did you report to Prime?"

"First thing," she acknowledged. "Right after we brought Hound in."

"So what was it?" Ratchet had her lift an arm and test her rotation; there wasn't anything else wrong with her, but he did it so they could continue to chat.

Flare bent forward so he could check the plating behind her neck for any more pine needles. "Just a silver toolbox and a bucket made up to resemble Megatron." She gave a derisive snort. "You'd think that kids would know better than to do something like that."

"You'd know that better than me," he replied, retracting his right hand and switching it out with a pair of thin tweezers. Flare winced as he fished around in her lower back. "There we are. Last one."

She shrugged and straightened when he gestured to her that she could. "I can't tell you, Ratch. I don't feel a part of that world anymore. Even when I was, I couldn't fathom the reasons why certain people chose certain sides."

The CMO remained silent on that matter, dropping the needle into a basin filled with others of its kind. "Well, you're done. Hop off, missy. I don't want to see you in here until your next tune-up."

With a grin, she leaned over and gave the medic a peck on his grey-plated cheek. "Yes, Dad." Flexing her pinions, she popped off the examination table. Now, what to do with her spare time? Waving to Ratchet, who seemed a little wide around the optics, the grey femme left the medbay. Ambling down the hall, she ticked off who was in and who was out. Maybe she could catch Trailbreaker or Windcharger for a game of cribbage; they seemed to have taken to that game more than she had taken to poker. She needed something to keep her mind off of what had just happened. Ratchet was right when he said that one victory could go to your head. She could feel the itch, the need to fly and to snatch prey.

Where had that urge come from? Was she subconsciously reacting to the form she now wore? That could explain it.

"If it isn't the conquering warrioress come back to roost. Gimme five, babydoll! You done good!"

Laughing, Flare swept her hand up and back, mirroring Jazz's moves. He spun her around and gave her a friendly squeeze about the shoulder struts. "I knew you had it inya, didn't I say that, Blaster-boy?"

Peering over Jazz's shoulder, Flare caught her fellow comm officer leaning up against the wall. He bobbed his head in agreement. "Sure did, my man. Sure did."

Looping his arm around her waist, Jazz drew her close. "Say, what about you, me'n'Blaster go out an' celebrate?"

The grey femme's crest flicked up, then touched back against her helm. "Is it safe?" she asked, thinking about Starscream and Decepticon retaliation.

"Surely, sweetheart. Prowl'n'Red did a sweep not too long ago. It's all clear. Seems either Screamer was comin' back from something nasty, or he was headed there. Either way, it's good." He grinned, visors lights winking. "Dontcha trust ol' Jazz to see ya safe an' sound?"

"I –"

"Maybe these will change her mind, Jazz," Blaster said, pushing off the wall and digging his fingers into subspace. "Three tickets to tonight's Jem and the Holograms concert in Central City. Don't tell me I had Eject wait four hours in line for nothin'?"

In Blaster's big fist, the tiny tickets looked positively miniscule. "Three?" she repeated, a little confused.

"Yeah, that'd mean you, sweetheart," Jazz purred. "Figgered you bein' a femme an' all …" The deep ocean blue of his visor twinkled in humor. "Hurry up and decide; it starts in two hours – an' we gotta travel."

_When was the last time you went to a concert?_ her inner child protested. _There was that Chicago concert in Central City two years ago … or was it Earth, Wind and Fire?_ She couldn't quite remember. There had been a lot of drinking involved … Still, if Jazz was sure that there would be no more Decepticon activity for the time being, she supposed she could forego cribbage with Breaker and Charger for just one night. "Well, since you guys are being so damn hard on me … I guess I can go."

"Awesome. I'll let Prowl know and meet you two outside." Jazz spun the grey femme around once more before trotting off to the elevator. Flare watched him go before turning to Blaster. She _did_ want to go, but she sometimes wondered what prompted such generosity. After the accident …

"Blaster …"

"Baby, don't sweat it. We bought three with the intention of askin' ya in the first place. You're the only other one around here who's not completely square when it comes to culture."

Biting her lower lip, she gave a lop-sided smile. Blaster shook his head, his own facial planes split in good humor. "C'mon, let's not keep Jazz waitin'."

Tucking her wings close to her steel spine, Solarflare took her co-comm officer's arm and walked down to the main bay. Autobots on patrol were coming in as they lounged under the overhanging boosters: the Aerialbots, Gears, Bumblebee and Spike with Bluestreak. Flare perched on a storage bin, giving each one a wave as they passed her by. _Shouldn't Mirage be in by now?_ she wondered, searching the lists in her cortex for the Ligier's assignments that day. She dearly wanted to witness his reaction when she told him what had happened; he would be so proud of her, she knew it. She'd done everything that he'd taught her to – and more. If he didn't come in by the time they were set to leave, she'd see if she could pop by his room to let him know – that is, if no one told him first (which she suspected would happen when they realized where she'd gone off to).

"All right, lady an' gent, let's roll!" Jazz bounded out, transforming at the entrance. He popped his passenger door for Blaster, who, sadly enough, had no transportation altmode. The boxy red mech folded himself neatly and waited for Flare to pick him up and deposit him in Jazz's plush interior. That done, the saboteur shut his door and began to drive down the rocky path into Portland. Flare wasted no time; she let herself slide into the freedom that was her avian other half. With a thought, she was airborne once more, the winds blowing past her nares, flowing over her wings and down along her tailfeathers. Would she return to being human? No … not to give this up, though the pang of family lost was an ache that she bore daily.

Though they were out for leisure, all three kept their scanners on full alert. Blaster monitored the radio waves, Solarflare the skies, and Jazz the terrain. _"I hope you don't mind sitting in the back,"_ Jazz called up to her as they pulled into the city. From her vantage point in the air, she could clearly see where they were headed: twin pillars of light ticked back and forth, tantalizing her with their brightness. Zooming in, the femme was able to pick out the brightly-lit stage, with its myriad flashing lights; fans of the girl rock group Jem and the Holograms were streaming into the park where the concert was being held, their neon-dyed clothes and pink-blue-green-streaked hair painfully obvious in the super-charged atmosphere.

"_With these optics, we could be five miles out and I could still see the sweat on Jem's brow,"_ she laughed, winging over as Jazz pulled into the park's main lot. Flaring her pinions, Solarflare tipped her wings back, letting the awesome power of her boosters bring her softly alight on the hardtop. She transformed in midair, throwing her head back as the anticipation of the crowd hit her in the audios. Jazz popped his door and she generously pulled Blaster out, setting him down by her side. To the surprise and shock of the fans entering around them, the communications officer grew in size, shifting the rest of his mass from subspace and back into its proper place in reality.

"Got the tickets?" Jazz asked as he stood up, stretching; Blaster nodded, flashing the three minute paper pieces. "Let's rock'n'roll!"

While she didn't consider herself a fan of the girl group, Flare had to admit that they did have some catchy singles – when she got a chance to listen to the radio instead of monitoring it, that is. The grass felt good under her pyramidal feet, a welcome change from all the rock that surrounded the Ark. It was still bitterly cold, being deep in winter; her ventilator emissions sent little puffs into the air, floating into the night sky. Despite this, some fans insisted on wearing their ripped, tie-dyed summer shirts, skirts and pants, complete with a fringed belt for some. Last week's snowfall had been scraped aside for the three thousand and more chairs that were arranged in front of the stage. Others, unlucky enough to purchase these seats, took thick blankets and spread them on the ground, their hands wrapped around steaming mugs of hot chocolate or coffee.

Blaster passed their tickets to the astonished guard and they continued on through without question. Central City was famous for their Autobot favoritism, stemming from an incident two years ago involving Sean Burger, once a powerful political presence. It was Burger's involvement with the Decepticons which led to the Autobots' unfair, insane trial that ultimately sent them into space on a one-way ticket towards the sun. Ever since, Central City denizens had worked hard at accommodating every Autobot need when they came through – including, it seemed, hiring a woman who had been ostracized in Portland for her association with them.

The three Autobots delicately picked their way through the crowd still milling at the park's entrance and sat themselves at the very back of the roped off concert area. Solarflare squirmed at the coldness that began to seep into her delicate bottom plating; her tailfeathers twitched and she started to turn to Jazz to ask the saboteur to see if he had thought of stashing a massive blanket in subspace when the lights onstage suddenly blackened out. Wild, enthusiastic screams shot skyward as anticipation rose to a thundering crescendo of clapping hands and stomping feet. The Autobots looked at each other, brow ridges raised, as the very ground beneath their skid plates began to shake as if with the distant rumble of thunder.

Through the darkness, tiny pinpricks of light sprang up on either side of the make-shift arena, matching the intensity of two pairs of blue optics and one of gold. A sheer silver curtain fluttered to the floor; beyond, backlit by a dozen subtle lights, five figures moved. Flare winced at the piercing screams and deluge of "I LOVE YOU, JEM!" calls that threatened to burst a delicate sensor.

All at once, blazing lights exploded and the silver curtain dropped in one spectacular motion. In a rush, the crowd leapt to their feet as the opening chords of "Runnin' Like the Wind" thundered from more than a dozen speakers.

"Hello Central City!" a figure in bright white and pink called from the center of the stage, waving her free arm in great, sweeping arcs. "It's so great to be here again! I hope you're all keeping warm – I know it's freezing, and we appreciate you coming here to see us!"

The crowd roared back in thunderous approval. Jem beamed, walking from one end of the stage to the other as her band mates kept up the tempo. "I see that we have three Autobots in attendance! Wow – what an honor! Hello back there!"

Over three thousand heads turned to stare at the trio of Cybertronians seated in the back. Solarflare, completely unprepared for such recognition, looked over at Jazz and Blaster, her crest not knowing whether to stay flat or perk up in pleasure. "Hel-lo, baby!" Jazz called out, giving the singer an enthusiastic wave in return. The exchange was too funny; Flare covered her mouth at the sight of the saboteur falling all over himself for a human female. Blaster winked at her over Jazz's shoulder, grabbing the edge of the Porsche's roof in order to bring him back to the frosted grass.

Jem simply beamed, waving. "All right, Central City – are you ready to rock? Aja – hit it!"

It was a night to remember. The band entertained their fans for two solid hours, throwing out old favorites along with a few new numbers and some cover tunes. Much to Flare's amusement, they pounded out a fair rendition of Earth, Wind and Fire's "September". Often, the three Autobots forgot their size – and even larger feet – and got up to dance with the rest of the crowd. There had never been a time that the grey femme had felt more liberated – baring the freedom she experienced in the sky. All her cares, worries, duties and expectations fell away with the vibrant music and her unassuming company. Her spark was lifted so high that she forgot who she was, living for the here and now.

All too soon, the concert wound down, much to the disappointment of the fans. Slowly, Flare fell back into herself: into living metal, responsibility and war. She turned to Jazz as the Holograms said their good-byes and the mass of humanity began to slowly filter out of the park.

"Thank you for taking me."

Jazz beamed. "It was nothin' darlin'. Didja have a good time?"

The grey femme started to part her lip components with her enthusiastic assent when her audios twitched. Blaster peered over her shoulder strut, one hand going to his back; Jazz arched his brow ridges, his own hands resting on his hip plates.

Optics wide, Flare stared, then bolted forward. "Mirage!"

The Ligier pulled into the park, seeming not to care about the people who were forced to avoid him as he pushed through.

"Yo, Raj-man," Jazz greeted with his usual liveliness, "you're a little late for the concert." The wide smile on the black and white's face died the moment Mirage transformed – the Ligier's facial planes were twisted into something none of them had ever seen before. "Hey … is everythin' copasetic, man?" Jazz inquired, folding his arms. "Y'look a little …" He trailed off, for once, at a loss for words.

Concerned, Solarflare walked up to him and laid a hand on his shoulder – or tried to. The spy twitched away, a look of betrayal etched into his soft blue facial planes. Stung, Flare jerked her hand away, crest ringing flat against her grey helm. "Mir-age? What's – what's wrong?" She searched his optics for some subtle hint, desperate. Around her, Blaster and Jazz gathered, perplexed and utterly confused.

The Ligier, heedless of the sea of humanity slowly gathering around their feet, lifted his shoulders. "I heard about Starscream," he said at last, his vocalizer completely devoid of emotion.

"Starscream?" Solarflare repeated, taken completely aback. "What about him?"

There was a look in Jazz's visor that was more steely than enthusiastic. He stepped in front of the femme, keeping his body parallel to hers. "What's the deal, man? Don't be so harsh to the little lady. We were just havin' a good time."

Stunned, Flare's gaze flicked from Porsche to Ligier; Blaster seemed at a loss for words, standing by impotently. "What about Starscream?" she pressed, resting a hand on Jazz's right arm. "Did Ratchet blow my pinion out of proportion?" She gave a light, forced laugh. "You know how he treats me –"

Steel blue optics, their accenting lights harsh in the cold, starry night, flashed. "You deliberately attacked him, that's what they told me," the spy fairly spat, his fists clenched at his sides as his whole body began to shake. "You went after him."

Jazz's hand came up to fend off Flare's. "Yeah, she did. She saved Hound's skidplate, man. You should be proud of her. Our girl's a real warrior."

Mirage's optics darted from Jazz to Blaster and back again. "You went after him," he repeated, his vocalizer breaking and rising into a near-hysterical pitch. "You should have known better!"

Shock was quickly replaced by fierce avian outrage. Pushing past Jazz's shoulder, she stalked up to the Ligier, wings mantling. "Excuse me?" she countered, vocalizer dripping with sarcasm. "What is your problem? Of course I went after him! Just as Jazz said – Hound and I were coming back from patrol and he came upon us. I did what I had to – I ripped him a new port. I thought you'd be proud of me!" Jazz's hand clamped on her nearest wing.

"Let's go, Flare. Obviously Raj needs t'rethink his greetin'."

Her ire piqued, she shoved the Porsche's well-meaning hand away. "No, he better explain himself. _Now_. I don't need his permission to do my job, Jazz. And here I thought I needed his approval! Boy, I was wrong."

The Ligier winced as her barbs hit home, one by one. "You don't get it, do you?" he fairly whispered.

"Get what?" she countered, crest high. "You don't want me to fight? Then why spend all that time with the cannon, on the range?" His silence only rankled her more. "You can't protect me, Mirage! So stop playing nursemaid! I don't need you."

The crowd murmured below, staring up at the feuding Autobots with open-mouthed incredulity.

The look on the Ligier's face was one of pure pain. His shoulders dropped and he began to sway on his feet. Both Jazz and Blaster appeared completely confused and out of their element. Gently, Jazz looped his arm around the femme's shoulders, starting to draw her away.

Mirage's face went through the most peculiar contortions as he seemed to fight a battle with himself. Feeling nothing but pity for him, Flare began to turn away with Jazz when cry of pure desperation burst from the Ligier's sleek throat. "I – Flare … No!" She stopped, looking at him over her shoulder quizzically. "Primus, Solarflare! _I love you!_"

The whole world came to a grinding halt. Her jaw unhinged from its socket and her legs suddenly lost power; she staggered against Jazz, lost in sudden sensory depravation.

_Go! Go! Go!_ Her avian mind ordered. With a shriek, she thrust herself out of Jazz's hands and streaked off into the night sky on flames of agony.

* * *

Mirage dropped to his knees in the cold, wet, muddy turf, cortex ablaze with events just passed; heedless of the silence, he began to pound his fist into the ground. What had he done? What irreprehensible damage had he wrought on their once-close friendship? 

"Raj."

A black hand touched the Ligier's left shoulder, gripping it with just enough pressure to force the spy to look up. Jazz, with Blaster hovering in his shadow, was staring at him with a mixture of concern and pity. "What y'said – was that what this was all about?"

Numb, all he could do was nod. How could he have let things spiral out of control? When he had returned back to the Ark, everyone was telling him of how Solarflare had laid Starscream to waste with her bare talons. **_"Boy, Mirage!"_** they crowed, **_"You should be so proud of her! She tore Starscream a new aft! Now that's a femme who can hold her own."_** … But all he could think of was losing her again. And there was no way on Cybertron or Earth that he could face such a spark-shattering blow again. It would surely drive him mad, and he convinced himself of such insanity on the drive into Central City.

The Porsche sighed. "Mirage …"

Slowly, he shook his head, levering himself to his feet. "No … don't. I don't deserve it, Jazz. I don't deserve anything. I had something and once again, through my own selfishness, I lost it."

The black and white gave a derisive snort. "Slag! You're smarter than that, Raj. If I were you, I'd give 'er another go. Y'mean the world t'her, and she knows that." Reaching down, Jazz grabbed Mirage under the arm and hauled him to his feet. "Get on with it." Beyond, Blaster nodded his assent.

Wide optic'd, Mirage gazed at them. Instinctively, he knew that Jazz was right, but the prospect of landing on Flare's good side seemed infinitely nil. He had no prior experience with this – all he had done in the past was take, greedily, then discard. No femme on Cybertron had expected anything more – other than a night's pleasure and some credits, along with the prestige of adding the Ligier to their own personal conquest collections. As he had done.

He said as much to the saboteur, and Jazz frowned. "Time t'put the past in th'past, dontcha think, Raj?"

Well, what else could he do? Slowly, he turned from Jazz and Blaster; transforming, he drove out of the park. Once he hit open road, he'd made up his mind. Throwing everything he had into it, the elite spy sped off into the waxing late night.


	13. This Fair Destiny

**Chapter Thirteen  
**This Fair Destiny

_It took so long to change my mind  
__I thought that love was a game  
__I played around enough to find  
__No two are ever the same  
__You made me realize the love I'd missed  
__So hot, love I couldn't quite resist  
__When its right, the light just comes shinin thru  
_.38 Special, "Caught up in You"

Flare burst into her room, turned around and slammed the pneumatic door shut. Leaning against its burnt orange frame, she let her shoulder struts sag and her crest drop from its proud arc. The metal _ting_'ed gently on the top of her grey skull, softly vibrated to her audios.

**_"I love you!"_**

Those words, intermixed with pain and desperation, knocked around in her cortex.

A slow trickle of washer fluid rolled down one sharp-planed cheek and into her neck-guard. Hastily, Solarflare reached up and scrubbed it away.

_Love_ her? How could he? He – it – was just a walking, talking, emoting robot, with a complex computer for a control box and a wide range of pre-programmed lines, actions and reactions.

_But … so are you._

Another tear, then one more, oozed from the other optic. Her wings dropped from their customary position, the metal pinions clanging on the floor. _You are more than a robot; you are a metallic person. You are still Alina … somewhere in this body. You are Solarflare … _and_ Alina. And Mirage … he is …_ Desolate, she made her way to her bed, hoping that the night would bring change. Or, perhaps, understanding.

Her crest flicked and her head came up. Something … was not right. She could feel a presence – faintly – but it was there. And she knew that feeling, a kind of ESP ever since she had woken up in this new reality. _He_ was here. Astonishment and surprise over how he had managed, in those few nanoclicks that she had left the door open, to get in here undetected, gave way to anger and outrage.

"Mirage!" she hissed, vocalizer spitting a crude arc of static, arm arcing in one long swipe. "Don't play games with me!"

Something caught her wild swing. "No … no games." Mirage's baritone voice carried more than a trace of sadness – and perhaps, regret. First the hand with its long, slim black fingers emerged from cloaking, then the rest of the Ligier. He was leaning up against her bed, looking at her.

Snatching her hand from his grip, Solarflare backed away. His head slowly turned, following her movements; Mirage spoke no more, waiting for her to do so first. She eyed him back from the relative safety of the doorframe, not knowing how to proceed. She was still angry at him – with his rant in front of not only Jazz and Blaster, but the entire concert crowd. Why should she even give him the chance to apologize? Shouldn't she kick him out now and alienate herself from the rest of the Ark crew for the rest of eternity?

No. She couldn't. She needed them … she … needed him; despite her pain-filled tirade, it was all too true. He brought her from the darkness, he sat by her cradle's side all through those long days. "Why?" she whispered at last. "Why did you yell at me?" Her vocalizer was a ghost of its former vibrancy. "I was only doing what you had been training me to do – fight back. Fight and win."

The Ligier spy did not move, did not so much as shift to change his verbal posture. "Because …" He stopped, his facial planes slipping downwards, eye ridges meeting at the center of his crest. Flare watched him judiciously; for as long as she had known him, this was the first time she'd seen him out of his element.

Finally, he shifted and stood straight, whatever battle had been raging in his cortex now over. "Because … I … can't bear to lose you again. Before we met, I had one thing on my mind and one thing only – return to Cybertron. I wanted out of this blasted war, off this planet. I didn't want _anything else_. I fought for _Cybertron_, not for any one personal freedom." He stopped, paused. "You … you _listened_ to me – when no one else would. When everyone else was tired and sick of my whining. You listened to me until you went numb." He paused again, a slow, thin smile gracing his light blue facial planes. She started at his admission. "I knew," he began again, nodding. "You're too respectable … Flare. You let me prattle on and on, because … that's you."

Pressed against the doorway, Flare could feel her Energon pump beat like a bass drum inside her titanium chest. New tears, fresh from her fuel-lines, wound their way down her sharp-planed cheeks. She wanted to say something, but she let him continue.

Mirage lifted a hand and touched the center of his pharaonic helm, seeking inner strength. The hand dropped back down, rod-straight, at his side. "There are days where I will sit there and watch you and I'll feel that thread of guilt worming its way into my spark. And know that _I can't be there to protect you_ if something happens. If you go on patrol and are ambushed.

"I failed you once … I can't fail again."

A thousand and one thoughts, emotions, ran through her already-numb cortex. "You didn't fail me!" she exclaimed without thinking. All she received was a small, sad smile, a knowing smile. It was all he would ever believe. And nothing she would say could ever change that perception.

"_**You don't get it, do you?" **_

"_**Get what? You don't want me to fight? Then why spend all that time with the cannon, on the range? You can't protect me, Mirage– So stop playing nursemaid! I don't need you."**_

The conversation, mere moments ago, shot into her cortex like a streak of lightning.

**_"… Primus, Solarflare! I love you!"_**

"Mirage!"

"I should go now," he said at last, pointedly avoiding optic-contact. Flare watched as he took one step, then another, and stood in the center of her quarters. Then she realized that she was baring the door, and he could not leave unless she moved. Well, if that's how it was going to be, she'd stay put as long as possible. He owed her that.

"Mirage."

He wasn't human – how could he expect her to love him back? _But neither are you_, echoed in her inner audio once more. What little of Transformer relationships she knew came from the lip components of Sunstreaker – and he wasn't the most reliable or viable source of information in that department.

But her own actions, backed up by his admissions, told her a different story.

She searched his face, hoping for a sign, for some tic that would explain it all to her. There was no emotion on his face, none what so ever – and when a Transformer decided to clam up, it was so very difficult to read them.

Flare shifted, looking at his sky blue optics. Her vision altered accordingly, allowing her past the colored glass, into the very minute details that made up his visual system. And it was there, in the small optical components, that she found activity. They were flicking back and forth, up and down, right to left, all around in short, jerking motions.

Would he stand there for eternity, or would he fade away as he sometimes did when stressed? One way or the other, she would have to move, and he would be free to leave.

**_"I love you!"_**

The question was not did she love him – of course she did. As a friend and confidante. But to love as strongly as she had in the past, in her former life? To give something of herself?

**_"I love you!"_**

In the end, he was all that she had. A link from human to Transformer. The only one.

The avian femme found herself not a few inches from the Ligier, looking up into that emotionless face, through to those crazy, flickering optics. Slowly, she reached up, talons out, and touched his face. Still, he did not move; rather, his hands remained tight by his sides, all motionless, save for what was going on behind the glass. Those components suddenly stopped their twitching and locked in on her fingertips.

"Raj."

The nickname breezed past her charcoal lips. Her talons moved across one high cheek ridge, across his brow, down his sloping nasal ridge. As they crossed, so did his optics.

_He's not a man_, her cortex reminded her. _No male human reactions, no way to gauge_.

_But he is who he is. He is a HE. No doubt._

And she … was teasing him. The thought somehow amused her. Teasing the resident spy; stoic Mirage. Feminine wiles gave her strength, courage.

Slowly, she dropped her hand to his shoulder, raised the other to sit where his cannon usually was locked. Wings lifted above her shoulders, she stood on tip-toe until they were at optic-level. Like twin pendulums, his optical components swung around to meet in the middle. Gently, she touched her lips to his, a small, wry part of her expecting it to feel like sucking on a spoon … well, _metallic_. But, she knew better … her own mouth felt like nothing of the sort – more like it used to when she had flesh, and blood was flowing through her veins instead of mech-fluid, coolant and other additives.

She felt the warmth, but none of the pliancy that she had expected. Surprised, she stood back. The tears that had since dried upon her stark white face began to blossom again. Wasn't that what he had wanted? What he had practically begged of her?

Wings sagging, struts low, she turned around and placed her hand on the inner panel to open the door.

"Alina."

His right hand fell on her wrist, the other at her waist. Optics wide, she felt herself being turned round, her wings and tail feathers scraping along the wall, so close was she. Surprise at his sudden motion, surprise at his use of her former name.

His slim black fingers touched her cheek first, then moved slowly across her face in the exact same pattern she had just used on him. But Solarflare was not Mirage; emotion bubbled up from deep in her spark and she began to tremble at the light motions. "I love you," he whispered, and bent his head, lips to hers.

_"I love you, too," _she managed to reply through their internal commlink, for other parts of her were occupied. There was no surprise this time, for it was all true. All he had said finally clicked. Camaraderie and friendship deepened, evolved, changed. It was _more_.

He moved closer, reaching around her with one hand to press a sensor on the wall. All around, the lights dimmed until all that remained was the dual glow of their optics, blue and gold, winking at each other. Everything was going so fast, Flare ruminated, but she was too caught up, and there was no way in hell she'd let him go now. Shifting her weight onto one pyramidal black leg, she tapped the privacy lock with her left holster. Now, no one could get in – or out.

"Teach me," she breathed, running her hands over his bare shoulders, "tell me how to love you."

The noblemech spy chuckled warm and low, passing his lips over her crest, then down the curve of her helm to her lips. "I think … that you should be the one to teach me."

His slim fingers, made for the finer things in life, not war, slipped over her shoulders, down to her waist, pressing her gently against the wall. Part of her cortex that still remembered sex as a human drove her leg upwards, arching around his thigh, bringing his groin guard into contact with her lower torso.

"I know nothing," she whispered.

A deep, sensuous laugh rolled from his vocalizer as he parted her lip components. "I think ... you'll find … that it's not … all that … different."

Pleasure that she had not felt in ages wormed its way into her living metal body. While some of the responses she had been used to were not transferable to titanium plating, everything else was the same. Finding this as such, she found herself able to return Mirage's caresses with some of her own.

"Flare …" he moaned, increasing the pressure so that she began to rise up against the wall. Armor plating scraped and howled against armor plating, creating a resonance that would have been horrible to human ears, but as erotic as flesh-on-flesh sounds and sensations.

Her reply could not be put into words, spoken or otherwise. Transformer she might now be, but she was still all female, and he would know that soon enough. As awkward as it might be.

Two sets of lights, blue and gold, cut out simultaneously, leaving them in the velvet darkness.

* * *

Jazz was loathe to report the incident between the two friends to Optimus Prime, but he knew that it had to be done. Optimus rocked back in his chair, fingers laced across his thick lower torso, nodding as his third-in-command detailed the conversation. "An' that's it, Prime," the Porsche concluded, shrugging his rounded shoulders. 

Privately, Optimus wondered what had taken so long for the two of them to get to this point. It wasn't as if Mirage's interest in Solarflare was a secret. At first, when she had been human, there had been little to remark about; but as the spy's disposition and attitude began to change, his comrades started looking for the source of the transformation. It wasn't long before they figured out that he had been spending much of his off-time in Alina's presence, lamenting his lost glories and, towards the end, going out of his way to be with her for no reason at all.

Rumors began to flutter around that the Ligier was besotted with the human female; her death and subsequent resurrection only cemented their opinions. If he didn't love her, why did he spend all that time, day after day, night after night, by her cradle? Amongst some, it became a private joke; a look, a knowing nod, whenever they were seen together. Quiet, polite Smokescreen even had a betting pool going with Sunstreaker. As time passed, Mirage seemed to once again turn into himself; Solarflare, on the other hand, bloomed. Ever observant, Optimus realized what was happening: no longer trapped in a body of flesh and empowered by the mechs around her, Solarflare began to unknowingly distance herself from the spy she had once spent so many hours with, talking about life, poetry and their worlds.

"Where are they now, Jazz?"

The white-black saboteur shrugged again. "Dunno. Flare jetted outta there like 'er life depended on it. Raj? I sent 'im after 'er … dunno if he came back."

Tipping forward, Optimus pressed a button on his desk. "Prowl."

A split second, then: _"Prowl here, Prime."_

"Are Solarflare and Mirage in residence?"

_"One moment … Ah, Solarflare's door was activated not an hour ago. I can't say the same for Mirage's."_ There was a pause. _"Would you like me to hail him, Prime?"_

Flicking his optics towards Jazz, Optimus shook his head. "Negative. Thank you, Prowl."

_"Of … course."_ And there was puzzlement in the second-in-command's vocalizer, but he cut the connection all the same.

Seated in a chair across the desk, Jazz crossed his legs. "What now?"

Slowly, Optimus considered the possibilities. In a war zone, love and friendship were luxuries; similarly, sometimes they could not even be afforded those. He could do one of two things: prevent this liaison from progressing any further and ship Solarflare off to Cybertron; or, he could let things go and trust that his soldiers would uphold their vows to the Autobot cause first, before each other.

A low rumble rose from the commander's red chestplate, causing Jazz to look at him expectantly. "I will speak with them tomorrow morning," he said at last. Lip components unusually set in a line, all Jazz could do was nod. With a sketchy salute, he gathered himself together and left, leaving Optimus alone with his thoughts.

Did he trust them? When it came down to it, yes, he did. He trusted Mirage when no others would – when all his high-ranking staff warned him that an Elitist among them would only cause trouble. He trusted Solarflare, for all her newness and the manner in which she came to walk among them. _Still_; his answer and their futures lay within the new day.

Reaching into a drawer, Optimus pulled out a small hologram. "Nothing is ever easy, is it, Ariel?"

* * *

Time was a blur, something she could not count. Solarflare cracked one optic shutter and found it still dark. A swift check of her internal chronometer revealed that it was still late in the night. Dimming her optics, she looked up and across the wide chestplate of the Ligier spy, Mirage. His optics were wide open, but as dark as the room in which they lay in. Fast in the depths of recharge. 

Flare smiled to herself and pillowed her head on her arms, which rested on his chestplate. She barely remembered the two of them getting on her recharging bed, but what followed was certainly clear. The grey femme smiled, faintly feeling the spy's dreaming thoughts through the thick chord that still connected them.

No, she did not regret the words or actions that led to this moment. She did love him – then as much as she did now, only deeper. Loved as a friend, companion – and, ultimately, champion. Idly, she wondered what kind of man he would have been: a playboy billionaire with a fast car, jet and boat? Long hair? Muscular with a slim, tapered waist and powerful legs? But really, her sober side reasoned, with the person whom she'd been, would she really have had a chance at the "man" he'd been? A pinpoint of blue, doubled, glowed before her. Mirage tilted his head to the side, looking at her; his hands ran up her thighs and rested on her waist.

"We can't debate possibilities," he murmured, gazing at her. "I have you now. And that's what matters the most."

"I know," she apologized, crest flicking flat.

He merely grunted, the shadows playing over his thin lips as they pulled upwards in a smile, trying to lighten the mood. A soft beep told her that he, too, was checking the time. But, unlike a human male, he did not move. "Do you want me to stay?"

The question, again, surprised her. "Of course," she whispered, pulling herself up so that her chin rested atop his shoulder panels, nasal ridge touching his helm. It was the best they could do – what with her wings and all.

"Good, because I don't feel like leaving you just yet."

A slow, sultry smile graced the avian femme's facial planes. "Sleep in?" she suggested, trying to make things up to him.

His hands moved from her waist and began rubbing the sensitive plating under her avian head. "Perhaps," and turned his head to kiss her once more, drawing his slim fingers across her sharp cheeks. " … Flare?"

"Mm?" she murmured against his neck guard.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "For everything."

Slowly, she pulled away from his fingers; setting her hands on either side of his shoulders, she pierced his optics with a very avian stare. It was her turn to be the serious one. "Don't be. I don't regret this life, neither should you." Flare paused, drawing a deep breath of air through her ventilators, trying to put her thoughts together coherently. "But, Mirage … you have to let me be me. I don't like this war anymore than you do … but it's who I am now. And I accept that."

Gentle fingers touched her cheek in apology. "I know. I have to accept that, too. And … you'll have to bear with me … because I'm not, well, not used to this."

Flare laughed softly, remembering his idle boasts and tales of conquest. "Well, Mom always did want me to marry a rich man so that she and Dad could retire early." A slow drop of washer fluid formed at the corner of one optic; delicately, Mirage reached up to wipe it away. His arms drew around her, held her, as they both remembered what they had lost – and what they had found.

---------------------------------

Presently, Solarflare became aware of a beep – a persistent one at that. It was coming from the top right-hand corner of her chestplate; there was another, similar, beep coming from Mirage. Touching the spy's face, she tapped her commlink open. "Solarflare here."

_"Solarflare."_ Optimus' voice resonated from her shoulder. _"Will you please come to my office?"_

"Of course," she replied, tilting her head questioningly at Mirage. The spy merely placed his finger to his lips and activated his own comm.

"Mirage here."

_"Mirage, will you please come to my office?"_

"Right away, Chief." Rising up on his elbows, the Ligier turned his sky blue optics on the femme. "I'm assuming Jazz and Blaster informed him about our argument."

She sat up, crossing her legs over his knee caps. "I guess so," she sighed, tipping her head. "I suppose we'll have to tell him what happened?" Optics wide, she covered her mouth, cursing the way her words might be perceived.

Idly, he nodded, not at all offended. "I would have liked to wait a day or two – for our sakes – but Optimus needs to know."

"We won't be … punished?" she asked in a whisper. What Sunstreaker had told her about Cybertronian relations had not included court marshaling for inter-solider rendezvous.

Mirage pondered the situation from his reclined position on his elbows. "Normally, I'd have to say no. But a lot has changed since the early days of the war. That, and we are a small contingent here, with a lot at stake." He paused, sitting up completely and looking towards the door. "Don't worry. You know as well as I do that Prime is fair. Come." There was a catch in his vocalizer, as if he were trying to convince himself to wholly believe in their commander.

She shifted and popped off the bunk, drawing the thick chord that connected them from her left side. Mirage retracted it back into himself and followed her out the door.

Optimus was waiting for them when they arrived. Lifting his head from Prowl's morning reports, he simply gestured; they took the chairs in front of his loaded desk, and waited.

"Jazz told me that there was an altercation at a concert he attended with you. Is that correct, Solarflare?"

"There was," she assented, her crest echoing her words, taloned fingers tapping at her thighs.

Prime laced his fingers together, his brow ridge creasing slightly at her brief reply. "It seems to me, judging by your attitudes, that whatever it was has since been solved. Am I correct, Mirage?"

"Aye, Chief."

"I'm glad to hear that …"

"Prime," Mirage delicately interrupted. Across from the spy and femme, Optimus' brow ridges rose. Mirage rarely spoke when someone else was, a product of his upbringing. When the Autobot commander gestured, the Ligier continued, "We're together now, Flare and I."

If Optimus was surprised, he gave no immediate indication. However, there was a decidedly pregnant pause before he spoke, laying his hands out on the desk. "As I believed it would." The Autobot commander's battlemask dipped in wry humor at their expressions. "Was it ever a complete secret, you two?"

Optics wide, Solarflare glanced at Mirage; the spy had the good grace to give a twitch of his shoulders – the only indication that he was squirming inside. "I –" she began, fishing around for a suitable explanation.

Optimus lifted a blue finger that shut her lip components quickly; he continued, "Regardless, I do not think I need warn you about the division between relationship and work; the two of you are well-schooled in responsibility. Because of this, I have no objections." Slowly, Optimus' great blue-grey head turned and pinned Mirage with a soft, knowing look. "I never thought I'd see such an expression on your face, Mirage."

Dumbfounded, Solarflare's gaze flickered between commander and spy; the Ligier laughed, rich and low, only the set of his brow ridge betraying his own inner astonishment. "Neither did I."

"Indeed. You are dismissed to your duties. Solarflare, I will see you at this afternoon's meeting …"

"Yes, sir."

Rising, Optimus spread his hands. "Until then."

Together, they saluted the Prime and left. Hesitantly, for all this was still so new, Mirage took her by the hand as the doors closed behind them. "I will see you tonight," he promised, touching his lips to her crest.

Smiling, she squeezed back. "You'd best watch yourself out there. I want more than just spare parts to come home to."

"Only if they see me," he replied, already fading into the ether.

Glancing around the hall, Flare made for the elevator. It was still early enough to catch the chill February wind coming from the rising sun. Alone, she walked through the main bay and to the outside. The patrols were already leaving; she waved to their bumpers and tailfins before she began to climb the well-worn rocky staircase up to her favorite perch. Against the stark brown of Mt. St. Hilary, she stood, a grey-white-black female in the form of an eagle. Drawing her wings around her for warmth, Solarflare, once the human Alina Michaels, regarded the rising globe of flame in the east.

_This is my life_, her quiet stance asserted. _I am a part of it, accepted by it_. _Mom, Dad, Rich … I miss you every day. If only I could tell you what happened; if only I could introduce you to some of the best people in the world … But I am still here, even if you don't know it. And I'll always watch over you … as you did for me. I love you …_

With a powerful thrust of her legs, she transformed in mid-air, sweeping the new day into herself with great strokes of her wings.

_I am Solarflare, once human._

_I am a warrior, an Autobot._

_I **live**._

* * *

Acknowledgements

This is dedicated to all those Transfans out there who can write a really good story. And to my long-suffering friends, who seem to take this infatuation all in stride.

Am'nelii Berinshah!

Credits

Lyrics on: Chapter One, "Click, Click Boom" – © Saliva  
Chapter Two, "Good is Good" – © Sheryl Crow  
Chapter Three, "Give a Reason" – © Megumi Hayashibara, from the Japanese Anime _Slayers  
_Chapter Four, "Take this Heart" – © Richard Marx  
Chapter Five, "World on Fire" – © Sarah McLachlan  
Chapter Six, "Cruel Angel's Thesis/Zankoku na Tenshi no TE-ZE" – © Takahashi Youko, from the Japanese Anime, _Neon Genesis Evangelion  
_Chapter Seven, "Alone" – © The BeeGees  
Chapters Eight and Ten, "Rise" – © Origa, from the Japanese Anime _Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex  
_Chapter Nine, "The Phoenix" – © Cynthia McQuillan  
Chapters Eleven and Thirteen, "Caught Up In You" – © .38 Special  
Chapter Twelve, "Valerie" – © Steve Winwood

Text from John Milton's _Paradise Lost_ found in Chapter Six was transcribed from **Renascence Editions** (http:// darkwing. rbear/lost/ lost.html). Lyrics and text are not used with permission. The author has no intention of putting this work of fanfiction up for sale in any way, nor does she want to.

Transformers, Jem and the Holograms © Hasbro, et al.  
All other material © 2005-present Melissa A. Hartman.

Author's Note

The San Diego Zoo did not come to have Harpy Eagles until the 1990s; thus, my placement of these magnificent monochromatic raptors at the Zoo in 1986 is in historical error. However, I believe Ratchet would have suffered an aneurysm if Hound and Mirage took a trip to South America. To view the Harpy Eagle, head on over to the Zoo's website to see the real-life inspiration for Solarflare's altmode: http:// www. sandiegozoo. org/ animalbytes /t-harpyeagle. html (Just put the URLs together.)


End file.
